More Plant Lovin'
by Fluffy-CSI
Summary: FINISHED! Ch. 134 up today GS some WC & NOC Grissom wakes up the morning after the team's crazy night of charades...
1. Exactly what did we DO last night?

**Rating**: PG-13ish

**Spoilers**: YGM and very slight PNN

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of these characters. I do own the plotline you're about to read, but since we all know it'd never make it to the show…then I must not own the show. Damn!

**A/N**: This is a sequel to my previous story "A Little Plant Lovin'." You'll need to have read that one to understand the situation in this story. That one was mostly humor, this installment is mostly angst and stuff. Consider yourself warned. Also, I've taken liberties with the effects and after-effects of Sodium Pentathol – if you should happen to know specifics on that topic, feel free to let me know.

More Plant Lovin'

Chapter 1

            Awareness made itself known to Grissom in the form of a pounding headache. Opening his eyes, he was immediately assaulted by the sun, which apparently had no respect for his delicate physical state. Slamming his eyes shut again, he attempted to throw an arm over his them. This effort was thwarted by a heavy weight on the arm in question. "Wha . . .?" he mumbled. Grissom decided he was man enough to brave the sunlight, and forced his eyes to open again. The weight simply had to go, he decided; his arm was starting to go numb inside his sleeve. Wait . . . sleeve? He didn't wear a shirt to bed, and certainly not a long-sleeved one. A quick mental assessment of the sensations on other parts of his body revealed that he was also wearing trousers and socks. What was going on here?

            Still trying to identify the arm-numbing weight, Grissom twisted around to look at the offending area. "Oh shit!" There was another arm on top of his. A pale, slender arm. An arm he recognized, but which should not have been anywhere near his bed. Wait . . . was this even his bed? He surveyed the room. Light yellow walls. Not his. His were green. Uh-oh. "Ok Gil," he thought, "focus. Let's use some logic, here. You are on a strange bed, in a strange bedroom, with a woman who is most definitely not a stranger. Sara. Shit, yet again!"

            "Ok. Slept next to Sara. Presumably in her bedroom. Did anything happen? I'm fully clothed. What about her?" He turned to look. Sara slept peacefully next to him in a t-shirt bearing the words "Physicists do it with force." Well, at least she wasn't naked. Not that he wouldn't cut off his right hand to see her so, but since he had no idea how this morning had come to pass, he was glad he didn't have to worry about why either of them was naked. Still, what had happened last night?! Grissom squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for the memories. Images began to work their way back into his conscious mind: Sara in a slinky black dress.  Nick kissing Catherine. "Wait . . . Nick kissing Catherine?! Let's hope I dreamed that one up on my own. Now, what else do I remember?" Sara, dress hiked up, straddling a lamp. "Pole dance?" Sara . . . on his lap. Why? He heard his own voice, slurred and drawn out: "C'mon Sara . . . gimme a kiss."

            "Oh god. Did I really say that?" She hadn't beaten the crap out of him, as he expected she would do to any man who made unwelcome advances, so maybe he was dreaming it. "Unwelcome advances, Gil. You really are a bastard, aren't you. What happened, you get drunk and horny?" No, no no. He wouldn't do anything like that to Sara. He valued her too much as a person to treat her like some sex toy . . . right? A movement next to him distracted Grissom from his self-flagellation.

            "Grissom? Mornin'," mumbled a voice. Her voice. Shit. "How you feeling? 'Cause you look like shit, if you'll excuse my saying so." She sat up next to him, eyes scanning his form. "You're not gonna puke or anything, right? Since we know that you're not pregnant, 's no need for a sample . . ." She chuckled at her own wit.

            "Uh. No, Sara, I'm fine. Well, mostly. Except that I don't remember how I ended up here. And my head is killing me. But no, I don't plan on vomiting on your bed."

            "Hmm, well I'm thankful for that. Just washed the sheets. You want some aspirin or something? Here, let me up and I'll grab you some." She rolled off the bed, giving Grissom a stutter-inducing glimpse of long legs and bare flesh. Returning with pills in hand, Sara surveyed the man in her bed.

            "You look . . . lost. What's wrong, Gris?"

            "Um . . .Sara, I, uh . . . um . . . What happened last night? How did I end up in your bed?"

            "Oh, that. I had the team over for drinks . . . you really don't remember any of this?" She looked strangely disappointed when he shook his head no. "Well I guess you, um, had too much to drink. We all did, actually. Which is why you're in here. Catherine's in the office on the hide-a-bed, Warrick's in the guest room, and Nick's on the couch. My bed was the only other place to put you." 

            "Right, Sara," said a voice in her head, "just keep telling yourself that's the reason."

            Grissom nodded. "Oh. That makes sense."

            Sara nodded. "Yeah. So, um . . . I guess I'll go rouse everyone else. You want some lunch?"

            He shook his head. "I'd better get home. Gotta feed the bugs, you know. Besides," he added with a smirk, "I know you can't cook, and I'm not really in the mood for take-out."

            The smile on Sara's face wavered, then disappeared. "Oh. Fine. But I do cook, you know. Not every day, but sometimes." She didn't know why she felt she had to justify her eating habits to him. Yes she did, she didn't want him to think her as pathetic as he had thought Donna Marks was.

            Sara watched as Grissom made his way from her bedroom, wincing slightly as she heard the front door of her apartment click shut behind him. Making her way through the rest of her apartment, she discovered that apparently the rest of her friends had decided not to stick around for lunch either. The only sign that they had been there at all was a note Catherine had left on Sara's desk.

            Sara,

                        Let me know how it goes with G. I want to know what he thinks about the fact that he finally kissed you last night!

                                                Love,

                                                            Cath

Sara closed her eyes, trying to gain control of her roiling emotions. She heard a crackling sound and looked down, seeing Catherine's cheerful note lying crumpled in her hand. With a sigh – "Well I'm certainly being melodramatic this morning, aren't I," she thought – Sara deposited the slip of paper in the kitchen trash can and headed for the shower.


	2. Not an auspicious start

Chapter 2

Walking into work later that night, Sara prayed that things with Grissom wouldn't be as awkward as she expected. It was not an auspicious start when she proceeded to walk right into him. 

"Ow! Shit, Grissom, what are you doing in the middle of the hallway?"

One graying eyebrow shot upward at her accusing tone. "Not standing here trying to make you run into me, despite what you seem to be thinking." Sara growled. "Sara, when you've, uh, calmed yourself down to a non-homicidal state, I'd like to talk to you in my office. Not now," he hastened to add as she opened her mouth to speak. "Have some coffee, take some cleansing breaths, whatever it is you women do to calm yourselves down. Then come see me in, say, half an hour."

"Fine," Sara responded tightly.

An hour later, Grissom decided to go in search of his missing protégé. He found her in the trace lab, deep in conversation with Greg.

"Greg. Do not even try to blackmail me with that. Right now I don't even care if he knows what – oh. Grissom." Both Sara and Greg jumped slightly at the sound of Grissom's knock on the doorframe.

"May I ask who 'he' is, and what he knows?"

"No," stated Sara flatly.

"How much is it worth to – ow!" Greg's voice ended on a yelp as his foot was crushed under a size-10 ankle boot.

"Don't . . . even . . . try it," Sara enunciated between clenched teeth, "or you'll never get that date you wanted."

"Date?" asked Grissom, who was having a fair amount of trouble figuring out what was going on in his lab.

"Never mind. What did you want, Grissom?"

"You were supposed to be in my office half an hour ago, Sara. Now, do you think you could pull yourself away from Greg here, and come speak to me as I asked you to?"

"Oh. Sorry. Whatever." Sara was not at all sorry, but she knew when to be politic, unlike a certain bug man she knew . . .

Settling down in a chair in front of Grissom's desk a few minutes later, Sara decided that her best defense was an offense. "What, Grissom? Are you mad at me for throwing a party or something?" she asked in an exasperated voice.

"You're welcome to whatever kind of social life you want, Sara, unless it interferes with your work. Which it hasn't," he added quickly.

"Then what's got your boxers in a bunch?" Thoroughly tired of trying to figure Grissom out, Sara slouched down in her chair with a huff.

"My boxers, as you phrased it, are not in a bunch. Nor are they any of your business." Sara's eyes narrowed.

"Fine, Gris. None of my business, duly noted. Now, what do you want?"

"I'm not quite sure how to phrase this, so I'll just ask you straight out: did anything happen between us last night? I have a few jumbled memories – I must have been more drunk than I thought – and some of them are of me and, uh . . . you."

Sara considered for a moment, taking in the grim face before her. "No. Nothing happened 'between us,' as you put it. Any memories you think you have must have just been bad dreams."  She emphasized the word "bad."

"So I didn't, uh, make you kiss me or anything?"

"I just told you nothing happened, Grissom. Leave it alone. Now, can I get back to work?"

"Yes, Sara. Thank you for . . ." 

"Ruining all my hopes," said the voice in his head.

"Reassuring me," said his voice out loud.

"Anytime, boss." Was that sarcasm he heard in her voice? Before he could decide, Sara was gone. 

"Damn, I hate it when she does that." Grissom eyed the clock. Two hours into shift. He was usually in no hurry to leave the lab, but tonight he was glad time was passing quickly. "Ok, then. Let's get to work, Gil. Man, I really need to stop talking to myself like this." 

Grissom caught a glimpse of Catherine passing his doorway just before he heard her voice float back. "Yeah, Gris, you do!"


	3. A KISS?

Chapter 3

Six hours later, Grissom still hadn't decided whether Sara had been patronizing him earlier. Not that he was thinking about it, he reminded himself; just idle curiosity about one of his CSIs. 

As he was repeating this to himself, another CSI appeared in the doorway. "What can I do for you, Cath?"

She smiled. "Oh, nothing really. Just wanted to check up on how you're feeling. Crazy night last night, eh?"

Grissom shook his head. "I don't remember much of last night, but Sara assures me that I didn't do anything particularly unusual."

Catherine stared at him. "Nothing . . . unusual? You mean that's not unusual for you two?"

"What are you talking about, Catherine?"

His long-time friend continued to regard him with a look that was a cross between amusement and shock. "You . . . Sara . . . pole dance? Kiss? 'C'mon Sara and kiss me'? None of that struck you as particularly . . . unusual?"

Grissom blinked. "Kiss? What kiss? Catherine, I would think you know better than to cause problems by making up stories."

"None of this is made up, Gil. You kissed Sara last night. You also asked her to do a pole dance for you. Do you really not remember?" He shook his head. Catherine continued, "But you said you asked Sara. What did she tell you?"

"She said, and I quote, 'Nothing happened, Grissom. Leave it alone.'"

"Oh. Oh shit . . . I think it's time for me to shut my big mouth. I'm, uh, sorry, Gil." Catherine headed for the door at a near-run, adding as she retreated, "Shift's over. I'll be home if you need to call me, but I recommend you ask Sara, not me, for any more details about last night."


	4. And then you asked for a pole dance

Chapter 4

An hour later Grissom stared at Sara's door, not really sure whether he was angry, or just confused. Finally, gathering his courage, he rapped lightly on the offending piece of wood. After a minute, he knocked again. As he was raising his hand to knock a third time, a disgruntled-looking Sara pulled open the door, muttering, " . . . your horses, I'm coming, I'm coming. Oh, it's you. What can I do for you, Grissom?" She looked genuinely puzzled.

"May I come in?" He was surprised when a flash of something that may have been panic flashed over Sara's face at his request.

"Umm…sure." She pulled the door open wider, allowing his to pass. "Can I, uh, get you anything? Coffee?" she asked with the brightest fake smile she could manage.

Grissom nodded. "Coffee would be nice. I take mine – "

"Black. I know," she said shortly, already on her way to the kitchen.

He blinked. "Yeah, black. But Sara, I have something to ask you," he called after her.

Returning with a tray, Sara admonished him, "Talk *after* coffee, Grissom. Your hostessing abilities are even worse than mine." At that, she handed him a mug of coffee and a plate with a slice of pie on it. "I baked it," she clarified, noticing Grissom's raised eyebrows. "Like I told you before, I *do* know how to cook." She curled herself into an easy chair across from Grissom's seat on the couch. "Now, what did you want?"

He swallowed, trying to think of a better way to phrase the question. There didn't appear to be one. "Why did you lie to me?" The blank look on Sara's face threw him. She didn't look guilty at all . . . had Catherine been making it all up? "Sara, you lied to me about what happened last night," he explained, trying to sound sure of himself. 

Her eyes widened, and for one terrible moment he was sure she was going to fling her coffee at him. Then, with an obvious effort, she forced her features into an attempt to look confused. "I didn't lie, Grissom. Why would you think I did?"

"I spoke to Catherine. She spilled the metaphorical beans, said something about us kissing. But she didn't know that I didn't know," he added hoping he wasn't getting Catherine into too much trouble. "Now, Sara – why don't you tell me the truth about last night? No need to protect my delicate sensibilities."

The wheels in Sara's head were spinning madly. "I, uh . . . don't remember," she attempted. "So if, um, Catherine says something happened, maybe it did. I don't know."

"There, that sounded believable," she told herself. "When in doubt, tell half-truths. God, I didn't think I'd ever learned anything from the scum we interrogate." 

Grissom shook his head. "Uh-uh, Sara. You remember. You weren't surprised to find me in your bed this morning, and you were the one who explained how I got there. Now, the truth. Please."

If she hadn't been so concerned with looking innocent, she would have growled. Then a thought hit her: "You know, Sara, why are you even trying to hide it? Everyone was there, everyone saw that he asked you to kiss him, not the other way around. So what's the problem? Tell him the truth and watch him squirm." Hmm, the voice in her head sometimes had good ideas, Sara reflected.

"Ok, Gris, you've convinced me. But don't bitch to me when you find out what happened." Good, she thought, he was starting to look apprehensive. "It's not a long story. You were drunk. Apparently you suffer from _beer goggleliam_," she joked. "You decided I was the subject of your . . . interest. So you pulled me down on your lap and made me kiss you. And then you asked for a pole dance, but you passed out before I could beat you up." She shrugged. "End of story. I dunno what Catherine got so worked up about, anyway."


	5. Oh god I can’t believe I DID that!

Chapter 5

Her frank explanation made him feel like his breath had been knocked out of him. "I . . . made you sit on my lap? And kiss me?" She nodded. "Oh, Sara, I'm sorry. That never should have happened. I don't know what to say."

"I didn't ask for a response, Gris. Like I said, it's no big deal." She shrugged.

"No big deal?! I . . . coerced . . . one of my subordinates into . . . into . . . THAT!"

Sara's eyebrows shot up at his scandalized tone. "'That,' Grissom? Chill out, you were drunk. I'm not gonna file charges against you for asking for a kiss."

"Charges," he thought. "Oh shit. Everyone was there. They all saw me do . . . that . . . to Sara. God I'm mortified. She must be traumatized. Oh god. I can't believe I DID that! To Sara, of all people. There goes any respect she had for me. Shit, shit, shit."

Sara was becoming concerned. Grissom had been sitting in front of her, silent, for entirely too long. "Grissom. Talk to me. You ok?" When he didn't respond, she put a hand on his arm, ready to shake him out of it if necessary. At the touch of her hand, he jumped.

"Fine! I'm fine, Sara. I, uh . . . I apologize for the way I treated you last night. I'd understand if you didn't want me in your home now." He jumped to his feet and made for the door, only to be stopped short by Sara's grip on his sleeve. 

"Whoa there, lone ranger – no fair running away before the damsel gets to say anything." Grissom fought the urge to let out a very Sara-like growl. "Now," she continued, "I'll tell you again. Sit." He sat. "Stay. And listen."

Grissom slouched on the couch, sulking in what he hoped was an adult-looking manner.  "What's left to say, Sara? Is there more to what I did last night?"

"Nope. The truth is out, so to speak. I just want to make clear that I'm not going to hold the things you did while drunk against you. Everyone does, uh, random things – like when I joined the Mile High Club?" A pause. Sara flushed, shocked that she had mentioned it. "Uh, well, my point was . . . you don't need to ask me to forgive you , 'cause there's nothing to forgive."

Grissom looked skeptical, but nodded. "I'd still like to make it up to you somehow, though. If not to make you feel better, than to make me feel better."

Sara grinned. "Hmm. You want to satisfy my honor . . . do I get to choose the weapon?" She laughed at his suddenly apprehensive expression. "Not pistols at dawn, I promise. I was thinking more along the lines of quiche." Grissom looked even more frightened. "Quiche that I cook, no less, since I know you think it'll kill you. No, not just quiche – a whole dinner!" Sara couldn't believe she'd just spilled out an invitation to dinner.

"Er . . ."

"Either you grovel by letting me cook . . . or I start rumors about your emotional attachment to that preserved piglet you keep in your office." She grinned.

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh yeah? Try me, bugman."

Grissom hoped his excitement at Sara's invitation wasn't too obvious. Trying to look unwilling, he muttered, "Fine, fine. Dinner it is. Just leave Babe out of this."

"Babe?!!?" Sara nearly fell off her chair laughing. He scowled.

"Ok Sara. When do you plan on torturing me?"

She considered. "What are you doing for the rest of today?"

Grissom blinked. "Uh . . . no plans. You want to do this _tonight_?"

"Got a better idea?" He shrugged and shook his head. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Now – you drove here." He nodded. "Good. Get your keys. We're going grocery shopping. And before you ask, no we can't take my car; it's in the shop as usual. Damn POS." He looked at her quizzically, trying to figure out how she'd gotten to work and back. "Nick drove me to work last night and Cath brought me back here."

"Oh." And in his head,  "Don't get so worked up, Gil. Just because Nick drove her to work doesn't mean he was with her before that. Sara can ride with whoever she wants to."

Sara was regarding him curiously. "Earth to Grissom. Come on, let's go." Shaking his keys at him, she headed out the door. 

Grissom ran a hand through his hair and headed after his energetic . . . his energetic what? Protégé? Friend? Lust object? He sighed out loud as he reached the car. Sara was just climbing into the driver's seat.

"Sara? This is my car. I'll drive it."

"You drove last time we went to a scene together. My turn."

"This is not work, Sara, and this is not a department vehicle. It's a Grissom vehicle. Now, out." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating that she should get out of his seat.

Sara harrumphed. "Never knew you were so territorial. You didn't, like, scent-mark my couch too, did you?"

"Not funny, Sara. Out." Grumbling, Sara removed herself and plopped into the passenger seat. "Now, where are we going?"

"The Whole Foods a few blocks up. You know, this'd be a lot easier if I were driving. You wouldn't need me to give you directions."

"You're not driving my car. I've seen you drive yours, and I'm quite sure I know why it's always in the shop. I'd like to keep mine running for as long as possible, and that means you don't get to put your little hands on the steering wheel." He turned back to the road. "And I know where the grocery stores around here are. I just wanted to know which one you shop at."

Sara was speechless for a moment. "You really don't think too much of me, huh Grissom. I can't cook, I can't drive – is the only thing I'm good for solving cases?" 

"I didn't say that." Besides, he thought, there were other things he imagined she'd be good for that were more fun than dusting for prints. No, don't think about that. Sara is not a sex object, didn't I learn my lesson last night? 

"You didn't have to say it. Just drive, Grissom. Let's get this over with." 

He couldn't avoid noticing the hurt that was plain on her face. "Sara I know you can do other things. I'm going to eat your cooking, that says a lot about whether I trust your kitchen abilities . . ."

They were pulling into the parking lot. "I said let it go, Grissom. I'll prove you wrong about my cooking, anyway." She strode toward the door, snatching a cart and launching it toward him. As Sara swept through the automatic doors, Grissom was left to struggle along behind her pushing the recalcitrant cart.


	6. Grocery shopping with a vegetarian

Chapter 6

            "Sara. Sara! Would you please wait? If you're going to make me the pack mule, at least stop running so the mule can keep up with its handler."

            Sara eyed him appraisingly. "Was that a _joke_ I just heard, Grissom? From you? Ah, doubtful. Now, keep your mind on the task at hand," she joked. "Selecting the right head of broccoli takes talent and precision." 

As they made their way through the market, Grissom became more and more apprehensive each time Sara threw something into their cart. Wheat germ? Organic soy cheese? What sort of quiche was this woman _making_? "'Eggschange egg substitute'? Sara what exactly do you plan to feed me? You know I'm not a vegetarian."

Sara smirked. "You said you wanted to make it up to me. You also said I couldn't cook. Well, if you still believe the latter, then prepare to suffer from the former. If you think that maybe I can cook after all, well then you have nothing to worry about, now do you." 

Grissom gulped. "Yes'm," he ventured to Sara. To himself, he could only think, "God I feel like I'm having dinner with Lady Heather, not Sara Sidle. I hope to god she hasn't got any handcuffs at home. Er, well actually…hmm." 

Sara puzzled over the sudden flush that rose on his cheeks. "Maybe he's finally had the good sense to be embarrassed about insulting me. No, probably not. He's probably just embarrassed to be seen in public with me, bad cook that I must be." Shooting a glare at Grissom, she picked up the pace.

"Since you obviously don't like being here, how about participating a little so we can get this over with? Hand me that bread flour. And no, don't ask what it's for. You're an investigator – try putting your skills to use." 

"Smart ass," Grissom muttered.

"I heard that. Get moving, old man." In spite of herself, Sara was beginning to enjoy this outing. It felt almost like they were, well, married or something. Going grocery shopping together . . . definitely an activity for couples. Which they weren't, she reminded herself. But a woman could pretend. She smiled at her companion. "I promise I won't send you home dead, ok Grissom? Cause god knows Catherine doesn't want the shit that goes with your job."

A gesture of peace, he assumed. Well that was fair enough. "Hmm…I suppose I can trust you," he smirked, enjoying Sara's annoyed expression. "Oh come on, Sara, you know I trust you. You're probably the only one of my CSIs that I'd trust to cover my back alone. That extends to your cooking, even." This was greeted by a smile.

Had he just complimented her? He had! Damn, maybe this night wasn't going to be as bad as she had feared. Sara grinned. "C'mon, Gris, we're almost done. Just keep telling yourself it'll all be over soon." 

As they made their way toward the checkout lane, Grissom surveyed the contents of the cart. Egg substitute, three heads of broccoli, sugar, milk, soy cheese, banana pudding, "nilla" wafers, bread flour, wheat germ, yeast, olive oil . . . "Sara, do you actually have any food in your house? Or are we buying all of it?"

"Um, well I do have food. Mostly not stuff I'd feed anyone for dinner, though. That pie, some cereal, a few soy yogurts." 

As she spoke, the cashier began ringing up their purchases. Grissom watched the prices flash by on the register's screen. "$5.60 for a half pound of fake cheese?!" he thought. "Damn stuff better clean up the kitchen for us after dinner for that kind of price," he mumbled to Sara. 

"Shush. Quality food costs more. Stop sulking just because I'm making you eat healthy tonight." She began to dig around in her pockets, trying to recover the two $20 bills she knew were buried in there somewhere. Before she could find them, Grissom had handed the cashier $35.23 from his own wallet. Sara noticed that, exacting as always, he had counted out exactly the amount of their bill. "You didn't need to pay, you know."

He shrugged. "It was either that or wait for you to clean out your pockets. Besides, this is _my _penance, remember? Only fair that I pay for the items of torture." He adroitly ducked the swat that came flying toward his head. "Predictable, Sara – you're getting predictable," he chuckled as they headed out the door.


	7. Pillow fight

Chapter 7

            Sara grumbled at him all the way back to her house, but Grissom knew that there wasn't any real venom behind her words. "Penance . . . instruments of torture . . . why you . . . hmph." He grinned.

            "Aw gee Sara, you wound me." 

            She tried to glare at him, but it ended up being a smile. When had this afternoon actually become fun? She didn't know, but she going to enjoy it as long as possible. "You know you're going to have to work for your supper – better behave or I'll give you the menial jobs," she teased. "And next time I'm driving!"

            "Not my car, you aren't. Now, we're here – you want me, being the big strong man, to carry the bags in?" He couldn't believe what he was saying. He never spoke this light-heartedly, to anyone!

            To his surprise, Sara grinned and nodded. "Sure. Knock yourself out." Making for the door, she shut and locked it behind her and made a face at Grissom through the window. She laughed out loud at his shocked look. "Hah!" she called to him through the glass. "Big strong man, my ass! Find a way in now!"

            Grissom blinked. "Come on, Sara, let me in. This isn't funny!" She only shook her head and grinned. "This _really_ isn't funny!"

            "Of course it is! You're just on the wrong side of the door to get the joke!"

            He would never have admitted it, but he was having fun. This was a battle of wits, and he knew his were at least as good as Sara's, if not better. "Ooookay, Miss Sidle. Whatever you say." He knew she heard the edge to his voice, and he knew she was going to run to double-lock her back door in response. Sara did just as he expected, and Grissom grinned. This was too easy! He knew there was a reason he always carried a pocketknife, and this was it. He had her front door lock open in a few seconds – he'd expected Sara to have better protection than one little turn bolt – and was soon in the kitchen unloading the groceries. 

But where was Sara? He was starting to get concerned. With a sigh, he decided it was time to go find her. As he rounded the corner from her kitchen doorway, a pillow connected solidly with his face. "What the . . .! Sara!" 

"Gotcha! You didn't think I really only had the one lock on my door, did ya? You did! Well that'll teach you, boss-man. Now c'mon, we've got a dinner to cook." She turned without waiting for an answer and headed for the kitchen.

"Not so fast," Grissom thought. He grabbed the pillow she had hit him with and took a swing at her shoulder. He didn't know Sara could shriek at all, let alone as shrilly as she did at that moment.

"Grissom!! Oh you're in trouble now!" Grissom couldn't hide the grin that split his face. Sara apparently took offense at this and took him completely by surprise with a flying tackle. 

Suddenly she found herself on top of Grissom. Grissom! "Er . . . sorry," she muttered, and moved to pull herself off him. She was tethered to the floor, though. Grissom had an arm around her waist and their legs were tangled together.


	8. I’m going to make bread? From scratch?

A/N: Recipes are real, from http://www.foodtv.com/foodtv/recipe/0,6255,25159,00.html

(bread) and http://www.cooks.com/rec/doc/yEdGGGGGpGfGsGfhdGfhyGfhhshAEsGsGsEswsTsUhdAOATsGsysOsfh/ (quiche)

Chapter 8

Grissom knew better than to let her up at that moment. If Sara got up, she was just going to take another swing at him – and she would probably win a real pillow fight between them. No way, he wasn't going to get himself beat up just yet. He rolled her over until Sara was beneath him. "No way, Sara. You win – but if I let you up now you're going to make sure you win!"

She tried wheedling. "Oh, come on Gris. I'm not going to hit you once you've conceded defeat." He smirked and shook his head. "I promise! I won't. I just want to get dinner started so we can eat before it's time to go to work!" This seemed to hit the mark, and Grissom gave her a suspicious look and rolled off her, pulling Sara to her feet.

"Now behave, young lady," he warned as they finally made it into the kitchen. Sara stuck her tongue out at his back, but refrained from any more tackling. 

When she saw the already-unpacked groceries, Sara raised an eyebrow at her worthy opponent. "Well at least you're good for something," she quipped. "Now . . . you get to make the bread. That's harder to mess up." She pushed a pile of measuring cups and spoons toward Grissom, then handed him a battered recipe card.

"You're – I'm – actually going to _make_ bread? From scratch?"

"Guess your investigative skills didn't hit that bread flour as hard as I expected they would. Yes, Grissom, we're going to bake bread. I do it regularly. Too many preservatives in that store-bought stuff." She dug a jar of honey out of a cabinet above his head and passed that to him as well. "Now measure these out – here, Grissom, look at the _recipe_," she said in exasperation. "I thought you cooked!"

"I do. Just not bread."

"Ok, fine. Well let me get this quiche going and then I'll help you. Just sit tight and don't break anything in the meantime." 

Grissom gave her a dirty look, but put down the recipe and watched her prepare her . . . ugh, he could barely think it . . . quiche - which he was expected to eat!

"You're just lucky I use pre-made crusts, or you'd be tearing your hair out." Sara grinned as she chopped the broccoli and lined the crust with it. "Here. Keep busy – mix these up," she said, handing him a bowl, the fake eggs, fake milk, salt, and pepper. Grissom awkwardly obeyed her orders and managed to get everything into the bowl together without spilling or wrinkling his nose too much. "Now dump." She indicated the pie pan, which currently held the crust and the broccoli. He dumped the contents of his bowl into it. Sara reached for the cheese grater and the soy cheese, grating the latter to cover the egg mixture. Walking over to preheat the oven, Sara chirped, "Good. Quiche done. Now that wasn't so hard, now was it?" Grissom grunted.

"Well thanks for your enthusiasm," Sara continued. "Now, let me teach you how to make bread. I do _not _want to hear you ever make fun of _my_ cooking abilities again, Mr. 'bread?'!" Another grunt answered her. Sara snorted. "Don't be bitter just 'cause I've proved you wrong, bugman."

Sara did the measuring and mixing, then handed the dough and the package of bread flour off to Grissom. "Since you're the man," she explained sarcastically, "you get to knead. Knock yourself out." She put the quiche in the topmost of her two wall ovens, then leaned back against the counter with a smug grin. 

Grissom grimly began kneading. He would get her for this. His eye fell upon the open bag of flour he was sampling from. "Oh . . . this will be good. Watch out, pillow-girl," he thought smugly. He turned to Sara. "Can you come give me a hand? I can't get this flour all mixed in."

Smiling magnanimously, Sara returned to the counter. She dusted off her hands and began in a lecturing tone, "You're not kneading right. You have to fold and turn, fold and turn." 

When she had her hands firmly in the dough, Grissom made his move with the handful of flour he was holding. Grabbing Sara around the waist, he ground the flour into her hair and down her face. For the second time in an hour, Sara squealed.


	9. In the SINK, Grissom!

A/N: I've had experience with trying to get flour out of long hair. It is not fun!

Chapter 9

"Grissom!" she screeched. "You're so dead!" She was stuck for the moment, however, because her hands were wedged firmly in the bread dough. She carefully extricated herself – no need to let all this work go to waste on the floor after being thrown at him – and pulled as far away from her attacker as possible. "I can _not_ believe you just did that. You're so . . . so . . . DEAD!" And she launched herself at him. Grissom, knowing Sara well, had a head start and was already heading for the living room.

Sara snatched up a pillow as she flew through the room toward Grissom, who quickly ducked behind the couch. "Mercy! Mercy!" he pleaded. "Don't kill me!" 

Sara stood back for a moment with her hands on her hips. "And why shouldn't I? Do you have any _idea_ how hard it is to get flour out of long hair, Grissom? Of course you don't!" she ranted.

Grissom winced. "Er, sorry Sara. You know I don't." He pointed to his own hair. "Never had it longer than this, sorry to say."

"Yeah, well, you will soon."

This was not sounding good. "Have long hair?" he asked, confused.

"No! Experience washing flour out of hair. We're going to put this bread in the oven and then you – yes, YOU – are going to help me wash this flour out of my hair."

Unbidden, an image of the two of them in the shower rose into Grissom's head. She couldn't mean . . . could she? His eyes nearly crossed. "How . . ." his voice cracked. His voice hadn't cracked since he was eighteen! This woman was driving him absolutely crazy. He tried again. "How, uh, how do you expect me to do that?"

Sara's eyes widened. "I didn't mean . . . uh, that is . . . in the SINK, Grissom. The sink. Didn't your mother ever wash your hair in the kitchen sink?" He shook his head. "Well mine did. It's entirely possible, trust me, and that's what you're going to do for me once we get this bread out of the way." Inching past him warily, she headed back to the kitchen, a somewhat chastened Grissom trailing behind her. 

As she shaped the dough into two loaves, Sara said, "I'm going to put this dough in. Do me a favor and go get my shampoo and conditioner out of the bathroom? They're on the shower ledge." Grissom gulped. Her bathroom? Female bathrooms made him nervous. 

Steeling himself, he nodded. "Sure," he squeaked, and made for the bathroom as quickly as he could. Anything to get himself away from temptation!

When he returned, Sara was shutting the oven. "I'm gonna go change my shirt. Get the warm water running while I'm gone." Grissom blinked. Was she doing this on purpose? What was she going to change into?!


	10. Wet tshirt

Chapter 10

To his relief, Sara returned a few minutes later wearing what looked to be an old t-shirt – as non-threatening as he could have hoped for. Checking the temperature of the water he had running in the sink, Sara nodded. "Now – you do know how to wash women's hair, don't –" her voice dropped off as she realized what she was asking. "Er, that is, you can figure it out, right?" Grissom nodded, amused at her discomfort.

Scowling, Sara fetched a chair from her kitchen table and a pillow from the couch in her living room.  She turned the chair's back to the kitchen counter in front of the sink, plopped the pillow down on the seat, and then settled herself on top of it. "Here, I'll even get it wet for you, seeing as how you look so scared of me. But you're doing the washing. This is _your _fault, mister." She proceeded to saturate her hair, a sight so sensual that Grissom almost swallowed his tongue.

How could the sight of raised arms and running water get him so worked up? He was a grown man – grown men did not experience lust like this at such an ordinary sight. "Baseball scores. Yeah, that'll do it. Recite the stats from '61, Gil." 

His recitation was interrupted by an irritated noise from the woman at the sink. "Ahem? Grissom, remember me? The woman whose hair you just trashed? Yeah, now get to work." He did so, slowly running his fingers through her hair. He'd never let Sara know, but Grissom had never washed a woman's hair. Frankly, he had no idea how to handle all this excess of keratin. 

He spent the first few minutes getting his hands tangled up in it and apologizing to the hair's owner. Finally Grissom figured out that he couldn't just rub it in great circles atop her head; that only yielded tangles.  Sara relaxed, apparently enjoying his discomfort as Grissom scrubbed harder, trying to coax out the flour, which had made a thick, sticky paste upon contact with water. Muttering curses, he was soon reduced to cleaning a few strands at a time with the tips of his fingers.

As much as he hated to admit it, Sara was right – this was a hellish thing to try to get out of hair, and he told her so. Sara only smiled. "Told ya. Next time I bet you'll hold back from playing dirty with me!" Grissom wasn't so sure, if it always meant that he got to deal with a wet Sara. He could get used to this. Well, except the flour part. He'd skip that next time.

Sara raised an eyebrow. Grissom was definitely distracted. His hands were moving, but his face was turned away and he was starting to tangle her hair up again. Scooping up a handful of water, Sara splashed him. He jumped. "What the – Sara! You're the one getting washed, here, not me."

"Yeah, well, you could use a washing yourself. You've transferred a fair amount of flour from me hair to your pants. And no, I'm not going to wash your hair. This is your own fault."

Grissom sighed. "In that case, will you let me use your shower after I'm done with your hair?"

Sara grinned. "Of course. Now, back to work! I still need to be conditioned." Grissom set back to work. The flour was gone, and he reached for the bottle of conditioner, which proceeded to jump out of his wet hands. Its attempted escape landed it in Sara's lap, where they both reached for it. Grissom realized just where his hand was, and pulled back in a hurry, eyes meeting Sara's amused ones. "I don't bite, Grissom. Promise."

Sara smirked. His hand was still dangling in the air a few feet above her lap, and she was pretty sure Grissom didn't even realize she was speaking. Even more strangely, he was wearing that drooling sort of expression that was usually observed on the faces of men much younger and drunker than he. Maybe that drug had hit him a little harder than she'd thought. Mentally shrugging, she retrieved the bottle of conditioner and squeezed a dollop into her hands. As she began to work the cream into her hair, she grinned. "You gonna make me fix your damage by myself, Gris?"

When her voice finally penetrated his rather clogged brain, Grissom harrumphed and snatched the bottle from her hands, returning to work. A few minutes later, he stood back and said, in a voice holding such satisfaction as only a man could have mustered, "There! All done!"

"Gee, Grissom, good for you. But it took you 45 minutes – you need work." She tossed him a smile. Using one hand to twist the water out of her hair, Sara eased herself to s standing position with the other. Grissom struggled to keep his jaw in place. Sara stood in front of him, back arched as she pulled herself out of the chair, wet hair dripping down the front of her shirt, "Wet . . .t . . .shirt . . ." his mind stuttered. Surreptitiously pinching himself, Grissom managed to recover to something resembling normalcy before Sara looked up, but not quickly enough that she couldn't follow where his eyes had been.

She looked down. The damage wasn't all that bad, she decided – the shirt was only wet enough to cling just a little. "You stared at my chest last night too, Grissom. Is this getting to be a habit?"

He had no idea how to answer that. He couldn't help staring – Sara usually hid her beautiful figure, and when it showed through it caught the attention of every male within a 3-mile radius. "Er, yes. I mean no! No, I wasn't starting at your, um . . . your . . ." He noticed Sara's raised eyebrows. When she doubled over with laughter, he frowned and cleared his throat, trying to sound serious.

"Oh just admit it, Grissom, you happen to have male genes; that means you ogle females. You can't help it, it's inborn!"

"I do not'ogle' females, Sara! Just because I'm male doesn't mean I can't control myself."

"Oh yeah? Then why were you staring at me, genius?"

Grissom's mind worked furiously, but turned out no answers. He sighed. "Because your shirt is wet, Sara, and you happen to be an attractive woman, even though I try to ignore it."

Sara wasn't sure whether she had just been insulted or complimented. This was just downright frustrating! "What the fuck's that supposed to mean, Grissom? You 'try to pretend' I'm not? Oooh, I cannot BELIEVE you! I take care of your drunk ass, I feed you, and you repay me by INSULTING . . ." Her rant was cut off by the shrilling of the oven timer.

Grissom's shoulders slumped in relief. "Let's have dinner. Shall we?" He offered her his arm.


	11. You know what they say about quiche

Chapter 11

Sara muttered angrily, but took Grissom's proffered arm. "Don't think you can get out of this that easy – after all I'm the one who made dinner, no use trying to bribe me!"

Grissom regarded her calmly. "I would never try to bribe you, Sara. That's a dangerous proposition, and I'd like to keep all my body parts, thanks very much. Now, let's get dinner on the table, because in spite of my best intentions, I'm intrigued at the idea of tasting quiche."

Sara had never been able to stay angry long with people she cared about. Besides, he had admitted that he actually did want to taste her quiche, and based on what he had been saying earlier, that was tantamount to prostrating himself at her feet. "But I'm still going to figure out what that crack about trying to ignore me meant," she promised herself.

"Fine, we can call a truce, Gris. Damn, I hate when you win!" Fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at Grissom, Sara grabbed a pair of potholders and removed her quiche from the oven. "Do me a favor, Grissom, and grab that bread from the oven? Potholders are in the second drawer on the left." Setting their prizes down on the table, the two exchanged a domestic smile.

"Well, this is homey. Feels like we've been making dinner together forever," Sara reflected to herself.

Noticing the small smile on Sara's face, Grissom wondered what she was thinking. Was she wishing there might be more nights of making dinner together? He hoped so, because that was what was going through his mind.

They ate in polite silence for a few minutes, both absorbed in their food. Eventually, Grissom broke the quiet. "This quiche is . . . surprisingly good, Sara. I'm impressed."

"Well, you know what they say about quiche."

"No . . . what do they say?" Grissom asked, intrigued.

Sara snickered. "They say that real men don't eat it, Grissom."

He raised his eyebrows, considering that idea. "Real men, huh? Does that mean you don't consider me a real man, now that I've eaten it and even liked it?"

She shook her head. "I've seen enough of you to know that you're a man, Grissom." A very pregnant pause followed that statement, and Sara spluttered, "Enough of your _actions_, I mean! The way you handle life, and cases – it makes you a good man, at least in my eyes."

Grissom was touched. Sara was usually so concerned with seeming tough – "one of the boys," almost – that it was rare to hear her share such feelings, especially about him. His eyes met hers, and she gave him a soft smile. If he hadn't been such a manly man, he would've sworn his heart fluttered.

"I, uh . . . thank you, Sara. I'm glad I've earned your respect." Was it him, or had they been dancing around some unknown issue all night? There seemed to be this . . . this _vibe_ in the air, and damned if he could get his unconscious to spit out what it was about.

"Just eat your dinner, Gil," he thought. "It'll eventually resolve itself one way or another. In the meantime, have some bread or something." Doing as the voice in his head told him to, Grissom reached for the knife to slice some bread. His hand collided with Sara's over the cutting board, and as a jolt went up his arm, ***BAM***. He knew what this tension was about. Time to admit it, he wanted Sara in a very non-supervisory way. "But wanting doesn't mean having," he reminded himself. As Catherine had once told him, having low expectations meant you were never disappointed. This could be a problem, he decided. etected her mental withdrawal


	12. It would have been a “crush” in HS

Chapter 12

Munching on the slice of bread she had snatched when Grissom froze in place for the third or so time that night, Sara regarded his face. That look . . . he looked like someone had just smacked him. She didn't think it was the food – he'd told her it tasted good. Could it be that he had felt that electric jolt when their hands touched, too? Or maybe he was shocked at her touch because he didn't like to touch her. That had to be it. She felt her face growing red. Oh god. What was she doing here, with him, trying to pretend she didn't have the world's biggest crush on him? She prayed her sudden mortification didn't show on her face. Ducking her head, she started shoveling in quiche like there was no tomorrow.

Grissom shook his head, trying to clear out the images of him and Sara that were dancing through his mind. Noticing her red face (after all, he was a trained investigator), he wondered what was going through her mind. He was pretty sure that Sara had, or at least had had when she moved to Vegas, what would have been called a "crush" in high school. Maybe her face was red because her mind was showing her the same sort of images as his was showing him. No, not likely – he didn't think women, generally speaking, had such, uh, explicit mental images. Which brought him back to the problem currently at hand: standing up would not be a good idea right now. 

Momentarily discounting the party in his pants, Grissom wondered what he was going to do now. He had admitted to himself that he wanted to pursue a . . . a something with Sara. He thought that maybe she'd be amenable to the same. "Ok genius," said a voice in his head that sounded strangely like Sara's, "you think you've got a chance. Now whatcha gonna do about it?" He glanced up and was surprised by the sight of Sara, sitting perfectly still in front of an empty plate, staring at him.

"Are you ok, Grissom? You haven't spoken for, like, 10 minutes." She smiled tentatively, but he thought he detected her mentally withdrawing.

"Fine. Just fine." He struggled to keep a straight face as his mind and body both reminded him that was most definitely _not_ fine at the moment. "Are you finished? I'll clean off the table . . . did you have a, um, dessert planned?" He could think of a few sweet things that – no no no no! Think of something, anything else. Time for those baseball scores again.

Sara's face brightened. "Yeah, actually, I do – but it's a surprise. Why don't you go take that shower you were talking about while I get it ready?" She would not, repeat NOT, spend the time imagining Grissom in the shower. It wasn't like she could act on her thoughts, anyway.

Her bathroom again. This could be dangerous, he decided, but anything was better than sitting at this table, afraid to stand up. Maybe he'd take a cold shower and plot some strategy. "Sounds like a plan, Sara. Where do you keep your towels?" 

As she led him to the bathroom, Sara fought with herself. "Mmm, Grissom in shower," said one part of her brain. "No thinking about Grissom!" admonished another. "Soccer scores, Sara – soccer scores," suggested a third. This was getting a little out of hand. She needed to just get back to the kitchen and focus on her semi-famous "banilla" pudding.

Settling in at the counter, she grabbed the pudding – instant, thankfully – and soymilk. Whisking them together was actually quite therapeutic, she decided. Gave her a chance to take out some of her frustrations on the milk. Unfortunately, she could only whisk for so long; there came a time when it had to go into the refrigerator. 

After placing the bowl of pudding there, Sara sank down on the couch with a sigh. Ten minutes until it was set and she could add the other ingredients. Grabbing a highlighter and the forensics journal Warrick had enjoyed so much the night before, she settled down to read.

Despite her best intentions, the highlighter soon fell from her fingers as her body realized she hadn't slept in almost 22 hours.


	13. It feels good to step outside

Chapter 13

Shaking out his still-floured pants, Grissom sighed. After 15 minutes in the shower, he still didn't have a plan for how to talk to Sara. He didn't know why he'd expected to have one; he'd never exactly been good at talking unless he was lecturing. Still deep in thought, he re-donned his clothes and made his way out of the bathroom.

He was surprised to see that Sara wasn't in the kitchen. She wasn't planning another pillow fight, was she? He sincerely hoped not; one a day was quite enough for him. Cautiously making his way into her living room, Grissom pulled up short at the amazing sight in front of him.

Sara lay on the couch, deeply asleep from the looks of it. "She looks so . . . so _relaxed_ when she's asleep," he mused. Awake, Sara was always running, never willing to take time to relax, constantly adding more stress to the load on her shoulders. Asleep, her face took on a calm, peaceful look that he imagined hadn't appeared on her face while she was awake for years – probably since her childhood. Sara was just too intense to allow herself much peace.

A smile played on his lips as he watched her. After a few minutes, he realized that it shouldn't be a big surprise that she had fallen asleep; after all, neither of them had slept since they woke up in bed together yesterday. Now that he thought about it, he was rather tired also. 

An idea flashed into his mind. Would she kill him if he did it? She couldn't . . . she wouldn't. He was going to do it, he really was. Taking a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his suddenly-racing heart, Grissom gently slipped his arms under Sara until he could pick her up. He was thankful that one of the few facts he knew about Sara's private life was that she slept like the dead – once she managed to fall asleep at all, that was.

Carrying Sara toward her bedroom, Grissom smiled at himself. Holding her in his arms made him feel all sorts of manly and invigorated. Well, at least it would have if he hadn't been so dog-tired.

Reaching her bed, he laid her on it and sighed. It hadn't seemed like it in his head, but what he was doing was a huge step. A very non-Grissom step. But he was going to do it anyway. Another gibe of Catherine's suddenly popped into his head, something about hiding in his hermetically sealed townhouse. She had meant it literally, but as a metaphor for his mind, it was too apt for comfort. He was going to change that. He felt like he had suddenly taken a sledgehammer to the walls of that mental townhouse, and smiled.

_It felt good to step outside._

Settling himself in the bed, he reached over and managed to alternately lift and push Sara until she was under the covers. He could feel her body heat, even with a foot separating them. That foot didn't have to be there, and he didn't want it to be there. "Deep breath, Gil," he thought, and curled his body protectively around hers.

She felt wonderful, but as much as he tried to stay awake to enjoy their closeness, his eyes were drooping.


	14. Was it all a dream?

Chapter 14

Awareness made itself known to Sara in the form of warmth. Opening her eyes, she was immediately assaulted by the sun, which apparently had no respect for her delicate physical state. "Ohh . . . someone turn off the sun," she moaned.

To her shock, a voice answered her plea. "I would if I could, Sara, but I haven't mastered that particular superpower yet. Why not settle for turning away from the window?" 

He was answered by a squeak as Sara stiffened beside him. "Grissom? What the hell?" Turning slowly over, she eyed him with trepidation. "Why are you in my bed?" A pause. "Oh my god it wasn't all a dream, was it?"

"Was what a dream?"

"Pillow fight . . . flour wars . . . washing my hair? Did I dream all that?"

Grissom couldn't suppress a chuckle. She was starting to sound as confused as he had when he woke up the morning before. For a moment, he considered lying, just to see her reaction, but in the end he gave in. "No, Sara, you didn't dream this afternoon. It all happened."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why are we in bed together . . . again? What's going on?"

The moment of truth was upon him. Grissom felt like there should have been a TV audience watching, waiting to boo or cheer his next line. The problem was that he wasn't sure what line was cheer-worthy, and what was to be booed. "You fell asleep."

"Wow," declared his brain, "you're just a friggin genius with that line, aren't you. Try again."

"So I, uh, thought you'd be more comfortable in your bed," he stammered. 

Sara raised an eyebrow. "And you thought I'd be more comfortable with you in my bed?"

Baseball scores weren't cutting it, and Grissom decided to fall back on a strategy his mother had taught him a lifetime ago: before speaking out loud, he visualized saying it in sign language. Speaking with his hands had always come easier than speaking with his mouth.

"No. I thought . . . knew . . . that _I'd_ be more comfortable in bed with _you_."

Sara gaped. What was Grissom smoking, anyway? Maybe he was just really thankful for being fed this afternoon . . . or maybe he had been too cold to sleep on the couch. The wheels in her head turned furiously as Sara tried to figure out how to answer such an out-of-character comment; after two minutes, nothing had yet come out.

Grissom felt like they had switched places. Here was Sara, waking up in bed with him, confused, and then there was Grissom, knowing exactly what happened, but reluctant to tell. Sara apparently caught in her mind, unable to think of anything to say; Grissom watching in bemusement as no sound came from her mouth. "Déjà vu," he mused, "or maybe in this case it would be 'vu déjà'."

"Sara? You there?" He waved his hand in front of her face. "Earth to Sar –"  He was cut off when Sara's fist connected with his stomach. Wind knocked out of him, Grissom could only look accusingly at her as he coughed and choked. "What was that for?!" he finally managed to squeeze out. 

"You know what, I don't even want to know what excuse you're going to make up for this," Sara hissed. "I just can't BELIEVE you did this to me, Grissom!"

"What did I do that was so terrible, Sara? All I did was put you in bed."

"All you did? _All you did_??" Sara couldn't even put her finger on the problem in her own mind; all she knew was that she felt like Grissom had played some sort of cruel trick on her. She hated not being in control and she hated not having the last word in an argument – both of which were happening right now – and so she did what any rational human would have: she took it out on her opponent. "If you don't know what you did, I'm sure as hell not going to tell you!"

Uh-oh. This was becoming one of those "woman" arguments where he was expected to read minds, Grissom decided. There was never any good defense for this situation; he could either grovel or run away. Or do something else to shock her. 

He may have been thisclose to falling in love with the woman currently berating him, but he wouldn't grovel. He was pretty sure he'd done enough of that earlier in the day. He wouldn't run away, either. Grissom had spent his entire life running away from emotional conflict, and now that he'd so deliberately torn apart his mental walls for Sara, he couldn't let himself hide again. He was left with one choice, then: "something else."

Stopping to think for a moment, Grissom realized that his pulse was skyrocketing. He was getting frustrated. Not, not frustrated – angry! He was ANGRY, dammit. What had he done that was so terrible? Nothing! 

"Dammit Sara, I'm not going to just sit here and let you treat me like I have no right to do anything. No – be quiet. Just . .  just shut up," he spat when he saw that she would say something again. "My pulse is at 95. Do you remember what I told you that means, Sara? It means I'm pissed.

"Why do you think you can just yell at me, anyway? I'll admit that I usually let you, but for god's sake, Sara, not now. As much as you guys all doubt it – and I've been accused of it enough times – I do have feelings, and I do get hurt. And I get mad if someone hurts me enough. And that 'someone' means you. Everyone says you're the 'emotional' one – and they give you more leeway than anyone else could even DREAM about! You know why I don't let my emotions show? Because if I did, everyone would look at me like I'd gone crazy! But you! You, you get to say whatever you want to whomever you want, whenever you want, and everyone just shakes their head and says 'that's Sara for ya.' Well NOT THIS TIME!"

His voice had risen to a near-scream, and as he stopped his rant to take a breath, he caught sight of Sara. She was sitting stock-still, staring at him, eyes so wide he feared they'd pop right now, and her mouth was hanging open as she watched him.


	15. I'd pay to see that again!

Chapter 15

He expected her to yell back, or to punch him again. What he didn't expect was for her to laugh and throw a pillow at him. It was his turn to gape at her. "What the . . .?" Rather than looking murderous, Sara was laughing at him!

"Grissom . . . do you realize how LONG we've all been waiting for you to crack like that? That was great! I'd pay to see it again!"

The shock of Grissom yelling had shaken Sara right out of her anger, and the sound of her laughter had the same effect on him. "You've . . . been waiting?" he stammered. "For me to crack? Er, Sara . . . what's going on here?"

She giggled. "Sit back and relax, bugman, because you're about to take the Sara Sidle anger management course. The materials you will need include a pillow, soft projectiles, and someone who trusts you." Grissom blinked. 

"Step one," Sara continued. "Don't bottle up anger. Punch a wall, throw a pillow, grind flour into your girlfriend's hair . . ." She stopped. "Er, I mean your friend's hair." Grissom raised an eyebrow.

"Step two," she pressed on. "Trust that your friends know you well enough so that they know you're just blowing off steam."  Beginning to get the point, Grissom nodded.

"Step three: do something fun to control your anger in the future. Me, I have tickle wars with Nick." She was silently amused when Grissom stiffened. "That or I sneak into Greg's lab and we headbang for a few minutes. No, seriously, we do!" When he moved to interrupt, Sara continued. "I know you say you ride roller coasters . . . but you don't ride them for the emotional release, you ride them to separate your mind from the emotions. Big difference."

Grissom sighed. "Sara, I don't . . ." He was stopped by her hand covering his mouth.

"Shut up, Grissom. You do. So just do what I say for once, 'kay?" After a moment, Grissom nodded and Sara removed her hand from his mouth, but didn't move her body away from his. "Let him be the once to make the move," she ordered herself. So she waited.

Grissom gulped. If her was ever going to get a chance, this was it. Sara was leaning into him – almost pressing against him. Was she trying to send him a signal? What if she wasn't? What if she _was_?? "Breathe, Gil. You can do this."  Slowly, he leaned toward Sara, millimeter by millimeter, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn't.

Grissom's face was so close to hers. Sara fought the urge to either grab him or take off running. She had to find out whether he was really going to do what he seemed to be doing.

A foot . . . 8 inches . . . 6 inches . .  . Grissom was getting so close to Sara that he could smell the scent of shampoo coming from her hair.

Sara swallowed hard. Those blue eyes, always so intense, were now focused on her face. She tried not to faint.

As he came close enough to feel her breath, Grissom saw Sara's eyes drift shut. Oh god. He hadn't felt this much tension between him and a woman since . . . he didn't know when. He tried not to pass out.

Finally, he was there. Sara felt the air part as his lips came toward hers . . .waited to feel the pressure as they touched . . .

**Oh the tension…I want to see how this story turns out too, so don't kill me for leaving you with this cliffhanger!**


	16. Hey baby, let’s go have dessert

Chapter 16

Grissom kissed her forehead.

No. no, no, no, Sara's mind screamed. If she'd ever seen a cop-out, that had been one. He _hadn't kissed her_.

He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He wished he could rewind time 5 seconds. He, Gil Grissom, a 46-year old man, had just chickened out on kissing a woman. This wasn't supposed to happen! His face was flaming.

She couldn't deal with this. Couldn't. How could this have happened? How could he have done this to her? How could this. . . he touched her hand. Wrapped his fingers around it.

"Sara. I'm sorry. That was . . . badly done of me," Grissom ventured. Sara looked down at their hands, saying nothing. He waved his free hand, encompassing the bed and the people on it. "I'm . . . not very good at this." 

Sara was silent. What was she supposed to say? She had no idea what Grissom meant. He wasn't good at kissing women? He wasn't good at letting women down easy?

This was bad, Grissom knew. He'd screwed it up royally. Well, damn. How was he going to set things right – or at least back to normal? He'd just have to try to make her understand that the fact that he bollixed this up didn't mean that he wasn't interested. Normalcy . . . how to return to normalcy. He blurted out the first normal-sounding thing that came to mind:

"Uh, Sara . . . you said you made dessert?" Ok, that didn't sound so good. "Uh, I mean . . . um, we've got to get out of bed soon anyway and start thinking about work, so, uh, how 'bout I help you with this dessert of yours?" He tried to make the last part sound suggestive, but he wasn't so good at that either – it just came out sounding lecherous.

Sara blinked. Ok, this was just _strange_. She was pretty sure Grissom was trying to make peace, or apologize, or something . . . but if that was true, this was by far the weirdest way she'd ever been apologized to – "Hey baby, let's go have dessert." She couldn't help it, thinking of what he'd just said made her crack a smile. Maybe he was just a screw-up when it came to being romantic. . .

She extricated her hand from his grip and reached over to playfully tap the side of his head. "I don't know what's going on in that twisted mind of yours, Grissom, but hey, if you want dessert we'll have dessert. You're going to have to help me make it, though – think you can handle it this time?" 

She was never going to let him live down his inability to bake bread, was she? Oh, well. There were worse things to be mocked for. Like not being able to kiss a beautiful woman. The good news was that she seemed to find this situation more humorous than painful – or at least she was acting like it. He smiled. Well he'd take what he could get!

He stood, and before Sara could get to her feet next to him, Grissom had grandly swept her into his arms. "O milady, allow me to ask a boon: that you not kill me," he exclaimed theatrically.

Sara laughed. "What the . . . put me down, Grissom! You're nuts!" He didn't obey, though, and she soon found herself in the kitchen, still being carried by a grinning Grissom who was making dramatic, pained noises about her weight. "C'mon, seriously – put me down," Sara giggled.

Grissom grinned evilly, and in the next moment Sara was unceremoniously deposited on the kitchen counter. "Oof! When I said to put me down, I meant gently! Some kind of knight errant YOU are!" She hopped down from the counter and poked Grissom in the chest. "You're gonna pay for that, bossman! You won't know when, you won't know how . . . but oh yes, you will pay."

Having driven the fear of god – or at least of Sara – into him, Sara opened the refrigerator and removed the bowl of pudding, which had been setting for rather longer than the 10 minutes Sara intended. "Where'd you put the rest of the groceries, Gris?" 

He pointed to the bags on the floor. "Want me to get them? What do you need from the bag?"

"Um, grab the 'Nilla wafers . . . I think that's all I need that we just bought, actually. There're some bananas in the fridge, would you get those too?" Grissom nodded. "Great."

He retrieved the cookies and the fruit and plopped them onto the counter in front of her. "Ok, boss, give me a job to do," Grissom joked.

Sara snorted. "That's right, grovel. Now," she said as she pushed Grissom and the bananas over toward her knife block, "slice those, please. Thin. Can you handle that?" To her amusement, Grissom stuck his tongue out at her. 

"I was a coroner, Sara – I think I know how to cut things up."

"I'll take that as a yes." Sara set herself to work breaking the cookies into halves, then mixing them into the pudding.

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Grissom announced, "Done! Your bananas, madame," and presented the cutting board to her with a flourish. 

"Gee, thanks, just what I always wanted," Sara responded dryly. She took the cutting board and scraped the fruit into her bowl, stirring the pieces into the pudding/cookie mixture. "Almost done now – it just needs the finishing touch."

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"In the fridge – there should be a can of whipped cream in the door."

Grissom thought for a second. "Wait, whipped cream? I thought you didn't eat milk products."

Sara shrugged. "Every woman's got a weakness . . . mine happens to be canned whipped cream. Now, gimme." He handed her the can and eased himself right next to her, next to the wall. Sara upended the can over the bowl, looking rather proud of herself as she pressed the nozzle to the side.

What came out was not whipped cream. Instead, there came a wet hissing noise – "what the . . ." exclaimed Grissom – and then a series of pops. These noises were followed by bits of whipped cream squirting out everywhere but onto the pudding. Grissom caught the brunt of the explosion.

Sara tried not to laugh, she really did, but it was no use. The laughter bubbled out of her as she stuttered, "I . . . I guess that can's . . . hahaha . . .EMPTY!" 

Grissom scowled. "I just took a shower, Sara!"

A doubled-over Sara managed to choke out, "Looks like you're going to have to take another one!" Grissom made a face at her, and she made a visible effort to calm herself. After a few minutes, she had herself back under control. "I'm sorry, I really am. I thought I had almost that whole can left. Luckily for us, I do keep another can in the back of the fridge – just in case I ever run out on a night when I need to binge – so we can use that. I'll even let you wield the can, if you're worried."

Grissom retrieved the second can from the refrigerator and brought it back to the counter where they had been working. "I don't trust you, Sara – I'll take advantage of your kind offer to let me apply this whipped cream." Sara harrumphed, but nodded, moving over so Grissom could stand in front of the dessert.

He smiled fondly at her as he removed the top from the can. "So you said I'm just supposed to push this nozzle here," he indicated the top of the can, "to the side?" Sara nodded. "Okay, then." Grissom turned the can down toward the pudding, put his finger on the nozzle . . . and quickly brought the can up to nail Sara with the first burst of whipped cream.


	17. Now you know how it feels

Chapter 17

"Damn you, Gil Grissom!" Sara shouted, wiping the thick whipped cream off her face. "You'll pay for this! Just LOOK at what you did to my clothes! They'll smell horrible tomorrow unless I wash them right now!" She shook a wet fist at him.

Uh-oh. She wasn't amused. Grissom decided that now was the time to grovel. "Er, I'm sorry, Sara. If you want to go wash your clothes, I'll finish up with this pudding. I even promise not to make a mess of your kitchen," he said, holding up two fingers in the boy-scout salute.

Sara grumbled, but accepted his offer. "Fine. Good. I should really make YOU wash my clothes, but since I'm so nice I'll do it myself." Grissom nearly groaned out loud at the thought of touching Sara's clothes – with or without her in them. Luckily for him, Sara didn't notice; she was stalking off toward her bedroom, presumably to find a change of clothes.

Grissom worked industriously for a few minutes, making the top of the pudding look as artistic as his scientific brain would allow. As he was adding the last cookie to the top of it, Sara walked back into the kitchen, wearing a robe. A robe! And he was pretty sure there was nothing underneath it. "She MUST do this on purpose," he decided. Well, he supposed there was nothing wrong with a little good-natured teasing, other than the fact that it was starting to drive him out of his mind.

"So is my dessert ready, kitchen-boy?"

Grissom nodded. "It is indeed. Here, sit. I'll get out the dessert plates." Sara was afraid to question how he knew where she kept them. Either he'd been sneaking into her house at night to explore her kitchen, or he'd seen them in the cabinet earlier. Either way, Grissom wasn't exactly a threat to her flatware. She sat, and a few seconds later Grissom placed a plate with a heap of pudding on it in front of her. Preparing another plate for himself, he sat down across from her.

Grissom ate a spoonful. "Wow, Sara – this is great! I think my mom used to make something like this, actually. Brings back happy memories." He smiled, and Sara smiled back. The two ate happily until their plates were almost empty.

"Glad you like it," Sara finally said. "Actually this recipe did come from my mom. Maybe it's a generational thing." She glanced down at the table. "Hey, you don't have a cookie on top of yours, and I have two!"

"Well, I thought that you'd want . . ."

"Uh-uh, Gris. Share and share alike. Here, take one of mine." Rather than depositing it on his plate, Sara reached across the table and brought the cookie in her hand up to his mouth. 

Grissom licked his lips nervously. This . . . _this _was flirting. Sara was flirting with him! Wahoo! He gently took one bite, then another out of the cookie in her hand. It was now almost gone – if he ate the last bite his mouth would touch Sara's fingers. He noticed that Sara was watching him eat. What to do? Hell, he'd come this far, no reason to stop his momentum now.

Grissom placed a hand on her wrist to steady it, and drew her hand toward his mouth. Slowly, he moved his lips closer to it. Sara felt the fluttering pressure of his lips as Grissom claimed the last bite. What would it be like to feel that pressure against her lips, rather than her fingers? She sighed and ate the last of her pudding. The way they were going now, she'd never know anyway.

Grissom stood awkwardly. "Are you, uh, finished? I'll take your plate to the dishwasher." Sara nodded, and he piled their dishes together, moving toward her dishwasher in the corner. She followed.

 "Those were some really great finishing touches you added. I just wanted to tell you thanks for helping me cook tonight," Sara said gently. And in a voice that was a little more brittle, "And for that whipped cream bath. That was just great, Grissom. I _especially _wanted to thank you for that. In fact . . ." Grissom saw the gleam in her eyes and tried to back away, but found himself trapped between a CSI and a wall.

"Sara . . . um, Sara. Be nice – you got me with that whipped cream too, I was only making things even. C'mon Sara, I didn't mean any harm . . ." She was still advancing on him, paying no attention to his pleas. As Grissom's back hit the wall, he gulped. What kind of revenge was she going to exact for this stunt of his?

Sara knew she looked dangerous. "Good, serves him right," she assured herself, and advanced another step. She was now so close to Grissom's panicky form that her breasts were almost touching his chest. There was a flush rising on Grissom's face as Sara leaned closer to him. "Why would you think I'd hurt you, Grissom?" she said innocently. "I just want . . ." Sara began, " . . . to . . . get . . .a little closer."  As she said each word, she leaned an inch closer to her prey. Her last words were said almost, but not quite, against his mouth.

A beat of silence . . . and then Sara pulled away. Grissom's eyes widened. Sara smiled grimly. "Good. Now you know how it feels."

Switching topics smoothly, to the despair of a befuddled Grissom, she added, "Now, I'm going to go take a shower and get dressed. It's almost 5PM; we've got to get ready for work. Do you keep a change of clothes in your trunk like I do, or do you need to go home?"

Sara. In the shower. Mmmmmm. Grissom attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace. "I have clothes in my car. A CSI can . . ."

" . . . never be too prepared," Sara finished. "I know. So, I guess you're going to need another shower too, after that exploding whipped cream disaster.  I claim the right to first shower, though, being the woman and all." She grinned and headed off toward the bathroom.


	18. I've got something cooking

Chapter 18

While Sara showered, Grissom picked up the journal she had been reading earlier in the day and flipped through it. He's already read this issue. He wondered how else he could occupy himself until Sara got out of the shower . . . wet . . . and slippery. He tried to shake the lascivious thoughts out of his head, but they had dug their claws in deep and weren't going anywhere. With a sigh, Grissom began to putter around the kitchen, wiping here, dusting there.

He heard the shower turn off. Good, now he could stop thinking about her in there and worry about getting himself clean.

The phone rang. Automatically, Grissom reached to answer it, then froze with his hand a foot from the receiver. This wasn't his phone – he couldn't answer Sara's phone! What if it were someone from work? His heart was pounding and the phone was still ringing. After 3 rings, he heard the bathroom door bang open.

"Don't hang up! I'm coming!" she shouted, apparently to the phone. Sara skidded to a stop in front of Grissom, apparently unaware that she was dressed in only a towel and her hair was dripping water onto the floor. Snatching the receiver, she tried to slow her breathing before she spoke.

Grissom leaned against the wall, clandestinely enjoying the view Sara presented as she spoke to whoever was on the phone. "Hello?" A pause. "Oh . . . hi Nicky." 

When he realized who it was, Grissom's eyebrows drew together and he shook his head at Sara. "Don't tell him I'm here," he mouthed. She responded with a punch on his arm and a scowl. 

"I know," she mouthed back, then turned her attention back to the phone. "Yeah I'm here. What? . . . No, I, uh, don't. Yeah, I'm going to catch a ride with Grissom." Even from a few feet away Grissom could hear Nick's surprised exclamation. "Oh come on, Nick," Sara continued. "You know I wouldn't tell you even if we did have some sort of Grissom-Sara conspiracy going on, so you can just stop asking." As she mentioned a conspiracy, Sara wiggled her eyebrows at Grissom, smiling slightly.

"Nick . . . hey, shut up for a minute, motor-mouth. I've gotta go. I've got, something cooking that I need to watch . . . yeah. Okay, see you later. Bye." As Sara hung up the phone, she harrumphed at Grissom. "Like I didn't know not to tell him you were standing in my kitchen with me?" she asked sarcastically.

He shrugged. "You never know." He paused, trying to keep his eyes on Sara's face. "Um . . . did you realize you were, uh, not dressed?"

Sara looked down. "Oh. Oh no! Uh, excuse me while I go put on some clothes."

Grissom smirked. "Have I ever told you how lovely you look in a towel, Miss Sidle?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"Well, you do. Of course," he added, "you'd look even lovelier _out_ of that towel."  Sara's jaw dropped. Before she could say anything, he gripped her shoulders lightly. "Or out of anything else," Grissom whispered, and kissed her.

It hadn't been a demanding kiss, Sara decided a few minutes later as she dressed, listening to Grissom whistle in the shower. By most people's standards, it was probably even a child's chaste kiss. But between her and Grissom? Anything but childish. Anything but chaste. It had been an exploration and an acknowledgement. And it had been the most perfect kiss of her life, because it was a quintessentially-Grissom kiss.


	19. Get in the car, Sneaky

Chapter 19

            Grissom was still whistling when he emerged from the bathroom 10 minutes later. He was sure that his face bore the vacuous expression of the infatuated, but frankly, he didn't care. He'd finally kissed Sara! As long as he managed to clear that expression off his face by the time they got to work, he decided, he'd be fine.

            Making his way into her living room, Grissom smiled. Sara was still trying to get her reading done; she stood with her back to him, searching a bookshelf for what he assumed would be another forensics journal. He quietly walked to her and laid a hand just above her hip, causing Sara to jump, then spin around to face him.

"Uh . . . hi," she mumbled cautiously.

" 'Uh, hi' yourself." Grissom allowed his other hand to join the first, and slowly pulled Sara toward him.

            Sara, wide-eyed, brought her hands up to his chest and pushed back. "Uh, Grissom . . . I don't know if, um . . ."  God, she was such a coward.

Grissom released her hips, but didn't step back. "As you assured me about yourself earlier, Sara, I'm not going to bite. I'm not even trying to get you into bed. I just want to touch you."

"Oh. I, um . . ." Sara stuttered, "I'm no good at all this." Grissom noticed that her hand was clenched in a fist. He knew exactly how she felt.

"I'm not either, really. So how 'bout we both just try to relax and stop hyperventilating," he joked.

Sara smiled. "And here's me, all out of paper lunch bags." Drawing a deep breath, she continued, "Ok, I'm better now – I even promise not to jump three feet in the air again if you touch me."

"You sure?" He moved his hands toward her again, waiting for her to pull away. She didn't, and Grissom's hands were soon at her waist again. Pulling her toward him, he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. Surprised, Sara hugged him back. After a few seconds, she relaxed against him. This was so comfortable – she could stay this way forever.

Grissom dropped a kiss on her ear. "This feels good, Sara." It had been a long time since he had been this close to another human being. He'd forgotten how wonderful it felt to hold a warm body to his. They stood, just holding each other, for a few minutes until Grissom's watch beeped at him over Sara's shoulder.

"Damn, when did it get to be 7 o'clock? We've got to get going, Sara." Sara nodded, and went to retrieve their coats from the closet.

She sighed, wishing work didn't have to intrude on her life. But then, she reminded herself, other than Grissom, work was her life. She'd have to balance the two. Laughing inwardly, Sara snuck Grissom's car keys from his coat pocket into hers and returned to where he was waiting.

As he took his jacket from her, Grissom held out his hand. "Keys, Sara." Sara gave him her best "who, me?" look, but Grissom just smiled and looked pointedly at his open palm.

"No fair, how did you even notice?"

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he led her toward the door. "Because I know you well enough, Sara, to know that you wouldn't give up that easily on your quest to drive my car." She raised an eyebrow. "And because my coat is significantly lighter when my keys aren't in the pocket." He held out his hand again. "Now, keys?"

Sara removed them from her pocket, but didn't place them in his hand. "You're so mean to me, Grissom. I mean, all I ask is ONE little thing, and you refuse me," she mock-ranted, ducking out from under his arm. 

Grabbing her companion's arm, Sara proceeded to back Grissom up against the car. Leaning toward him, she repeated her performance from earlier in the night. "Come on, Grissom. Pleeease?" Her lips were almost against his, but rather than pulling away again, she softly touched them to his and, sure he could feel her smile, whispered, "Please, Grissom?"

Grissom kissed her back for a moment, then pulled back just enough to whisper back, "No. Now get in the car, Sneaky."

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "jerk," Sara climbed into the passenger seat.


	20. Alright, guys, back to your corners!

Chapter 20

The drive to work was uncomfortable, with both Sara and Grissom trying to switch mindsets from "this is a person" to "this is a coworker." As they pulled into the parking lot, Sara let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Reaching to give Grissom's hand one last squeeze, she told him, "Relax. We can do this."

Grissom nodded, but privately he wasn't so sure. Now that the damn had broken, could they really erect a false one every night? He supposed they'd have to try.

They entered the building as far apart as the double-doors allowed, then proceeded to get stuck in the breakroom doorway as they both tried to enter first. Sara threw her hands up and said in an exasperated voice, "Don't you have any _manners_, Grissom? Ladies first, geez!"

Catherine, settled on the couch, shot the pair a worried look. Had Grissom gotten himself in trouble with Sara again? Well, she reminded herself, they'd had the entire twenty-minute drive from Sara's apartment to argue. She sighed, supposing she'd have to play peacemaker for another night.

"Alright, guys. Back to your corners," she ordered, steering Sara toward the coffee pot after she gave Grissom a push in the direction of the table. "Now, what's the fight about this time?"

"What fight?" asked Sara in a puzzled voice.

"Nothing!" Grissom exclaimed at the same time.

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Well, which was it? A fight about nothing, or no fight at all?" Sara shut her mouth, lips tightening to a thin white line.

Grissom had a feeling Sara was going to make him deal with this by himself. "Whether Sara and I fight is really not the business of the team, Catherine."

Catherine shrugged. "Hey, whatever you say, Gil. Just thought I'd try to head off the sniping before it started. As long as you two don't go at each other's throats and leave your own blood at a crime scene, I'll leave it alone. But," she shook a finger at them, "I still think you guys need to talk this out. You fight too much, you're making the rest of us jumpy."

"Look, Cath, we're not fighting, ok? I was just annoyed because he was making fun of my driving," Sara tried to explain.

"As Grissom would say, 'methinks the lady doth protest too much'," Catherine said with a shake of her head. "Now, I'm off to find company that's more stable than you two. Page me when you've got assignments."

When their coworker was well clear of the break room, Grissom and Sara turned in unison to face each other. "Now what?" Sara hissed. "She thinks we're fighting, which means she's going to be watching, trying to police us."

Grissom shrugged. "We do the best we can, Sara. Better she think we're fighting than thinking that we're fu—um, dating." As he said it, he realized that he had no idea if they were "dating" or not. "Er, I mean, that is, if we're seeing each other outside of work," he hedged.

Sara reached toward him, pulled her hand back, scanned the area, then reached back out and patted his hand. " 'Dating' is fine with me if it's fine with you."

Grissom nodded shortly, embarrassed by his slip. "Well what I meant to say was that if she thinks we're fighting, then she won't expect us to be doing…anything else."

Sara knew he was right. She also knew what Grissom had been about to say before he inserted "dating." Good to know he wasn't just interested in her brain, she mused. "Ok, Gris, you're right as usual. Now, let me concentrate so I can work myself into being mad at you." At his worried look, she shrugged. "What can I say, I'm a method actor."

She lowered her voice. "So, you want to, uh, stop by for breakfast after work? I'll make you pancakes - I think you've learned your lesson about the quality of my cooking."

Grissom frowned. "Sara. Not here." He knew he sounded cold, but he was terrified that someone would notice this change between him and Sara.

Taking a step back from him, Sara nodded angrily. "Hey, don't let your emotions shine through or anything, boss. And don't let lil' old me get in the way of your plans. I'll be in Greg's lab, checking the results on my murder from yesterday night." As she turned her back to him, she thought, "Well, at least it won't be difficult to pretend I'm mad at him."


	21. They fight ‘cause they’re so alike

Chapter 21

"So she yells, 'Don't you have any manners?' at him, I had to separate them, and it all went downhill from there," Catherine was telling Nick, Warrick, and Greg, who were gathered around Greg's computer, listening avidly. "Grissom must've gotten himself in trouble with her again. Or maybe she's just pissed that he didn't remember kissing her . . ."

Nick grinned. "That's possible. You know how Sara gets with him not paying attention to her, and if he totally forgot that night – yeah I can see her head exploding. Poor Sara."

Catherine shrugged. "None of us were exactly at our best after however many rounds of drinks we had. Maybe one of us should talk to her, explain that alcohol tends to do that to people." She and Warrick both looked at Nick.

"Uh-uh, no way. Are you kidding, I'm scared of her when she gets in moods like this! Besides, that can't be the only reason she's mad at him; after all, she asked him to drive her to work, which must have meant she wasn't mad at him earlier today."

Warrick shook his head. "I dunno man. Who gets Sara, anyway? I think they fight so much 'cause they're so alike. You know, all that pop-psych stuff about seeing their own worst qualities reflected in each other." He realized Catherine and Nick were eyeing him curiously. "What? I read too, you know. I just don't publicize it as much as Sara. Anyway, my point is that maybe she doesn't _know _exactly why she's mad at him. Women get vicious when they can't put things into words . . . ow!" He looked down at Catherine, who was standing on his left foot. "Fine, I'll shut up. Hmph, a man tries to put in his opinion, and look what happens."

Nick, grinning, slapped Warrick on the back. "Dude, you're in so much trouble with Cath right now . . . and if Sara ever hears about what you just said? Whoooeee!" he said, shaking his hand in front of him in a "too hot to handle" gesture. Looking over at Catherine, he added cautiously, "But . . . I think Warrick may be right about Sara not having an exact reason for being mad at him. She's . . ." his voice trailed off as both Catherine and Warrick became fascinated with something over his left shoulder.

Greg coughed. "Er . . . hi, Sara. What can I do for you?"

Sara was furious. They were just standing here, talking about her. Psychoanalyzing her! "First off, you can drop the innocent act. I heard you guys from all the way down the hall. You're not much for consideration, are you?" She shook her head violently. "Never mind. Just leave it alone, ok? Greg, I need the blood results from last night. And no comments from the peanut gallery from now on," she added, glaring around the room. "My life is MY life. Period." Snatching the print-out from Greg's shaking hand, she stalked out of the room, still fuming.

When the anger faded a few minutes later, Sara was left with a deep feeling of hurt. People she thought were her friends, standing around just gossiping about her. Talking about her like she wasn't someone important enough to deserve privacy. God, this was why she didn't have friends; it wasn't worth it - when it came down to it, humanity sucked. She leaned against the wall, head down, trying to calm herself. Why was she getting so worked up about this, anyway? It wasn't any more than she'd learned to expect from people. 

She sighed, wishing she could talk to Grissom. But no – there were still hours left to shift, and he'd made it quite clear that she wasn't to talk to him about anything other than work during those hours. Damn, this just was NOT her day. Hopefully they'd get a case soon, so she could get the hell out of this building and away from these people.


	22. I don't need him! I don't need anyone!

A/N I know I'm a dork…but I mean come on, what else could you name a hairy spider but Fluffy??

Chapter 22

Catherine approached Grissom's office warily. She hoped Sara wasn't in there, because she hadn't come up with a good way to apologize yet. Listening closely, she heard nothing but the sound of Grissom murmuring to his tarantula, Fluffy. She knocked and pushed the door open at the same time. Both Grissom and Fluffy looked up in surprise.

"Catherine. Do you need something?" He was afraid he knew what she "needed," and he was right.

"I want to know what happened between you and Sara. I'm dying of curiosity, and I promise I won't tell her you spilled." She didn't mention that Sara would probably like to kill Catherine right about now, and Grissom would be added to the list if he talked.

He removed his glasses, sighing. This was not shaping up to be a good night. "Catherine, I'm not going to tell you anything of the sort. Nothing is going on between Sara and me other than what you saw. That's all you need to know, and that's all you are going to know."

As Sara rounded the corner near Grissom's office, she heard Catherine's strident voice coming from behind the door. "Oh come on, Gil! I know there's something more to it than you running into each other in a doorway. Sara's never going to know, so tell me!" Sara jerked back, heart pounding. He wouldn't! Would he? She had to know. She crept toward the door again, straining to hear Grissom's response. He was speaking, but she couldn't distinguish any words, just a low rumble of sound.

Then Catherine's laugh. "Are you serious? I didn't think you were really going to _tell_ me!" Sara felt like he'd slapped her. Well . . . now she knew where his loyalties lay. Fine. She didn't need Grissom. She didn't need anyone. She made her way to the locker room as fast as she could, and grabbed the journal she always kept in her bag. Then, peering around the corner to make sure none of _them_ were coming, she ran to Archie's small lab.

She knocked lightly and waved at Archie through the glass. He motioned for her to come in. "Hey Sara. What's up?"

She faked a smile. "Oh, not much. Slow night. Would you mind if I, uh, hung out in here for a while? It's too . . . loud . . . in the breakroom." 

Archie shrugged, waving her to a chair. "No problem. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks." She settled into the chair he had indicated, trying to get absorbed in the journal article she had found utterly intriguing last night. No such luck – the events of tonight were spinning around in her mind. Betrayal, first by her coworkers, then by Grissom. She could have handled just the CSIs - as long as she had Grissom she felt like she could face the world. But to have both relationships disappear in the space of a few minutes . . . she ground her palm into her forehead. "Read, Sara. Don't think about it."

Archie surreptitiously watched the woman perched across from his table. Sara looked really upset. He didn't mind letting her hide out in his lab – he was always glad that he had the calmest place to work in the whole building – but he hoped there was nothing really wrong. Sara obviously wanted privacy, though, so he said nothing and returned to his work.

He surfaced into the real world again two hours later and looked over at Sara. Things had apparently not gotten any better; she sat with her head in her hands, reading – or trying to read – the journal on her lap. As he was about to turn back to his work, Archie saw something he'd never in a million years have expected to come from Sara Sidle: a tear. Just one, but it fell with a "plop" onto the page she was reading. Sara wiped it away without a thought, lost in whatever world she was in.

Ok, now he was really worried. He needed to find another CSI and find out what was wrong and whether he could do anything. "Hey Sara?" Her head jerked up and she bit her lip, hoping Archie couldn't see the flush on her cheeks. "I'm going to go get a, um, soda. Do you want one?" Sara shook her head. "Ok, I'll be back in a few. Hold down the fort while I'm gone, 'kay?" he asked with a weak smile. Sara wasn't listening; she was back in her world.

Archie left his lab at a near run. Who should he seek out? Catherine was too abrasive to deal with a Sara this troubled. Nick and Warrick tried, and they'd be good at comforting her . . . but someone needed to calm her down first. He'd find Grissom, then – the most rational member of the team, who always seemed to understand Sara.


	23. Ok Sara, out with it

Chapter 23

Sara didn't look up when Archie walked out; she was too busy fighting a desperate inner battle with tears. Sara never cried. She couldn't believe that even one tear had slipped out – was she turning into a weak woman or something? Maybe romance wasn't all it was cracked up to be. If you never let anyone in, no one could hurt you.

No more debate. She was going to beat her emotions into submission. Sara's will was strong, and she knew she would be able to do it. Sitting up straighter, she started to actually read the journal in front of her. She always felt better after she'd made a decision, for better or for worse.

Being unemotional didn't mean she had to go back out there and leave herself open to their barbs, though. If the team needed her, they could damn well page her or come find her themselves.

_The hallway_

The first person Archie ran into when he skidded into the hallway was Greg. Pulling himself up just short of slamming into the other tech, he blurted, "Greg, where's Grissom?"

Greg blinked. "Since when do any of us techs talk to Grissom voluntarily?"

"You're the only one of us who's that scared of him, man. But that's not the point. Do you know where he is?" Greg shrugged. Archie groaned and pushed past his friend, continuing down the hallway.

He eventually found Grissom having coffee with the rest of his team in the breakroom. Before Archie could say anything, Grissom asked in a worried voice, "Archie, have you seen Sara? She's been incommunicado for the past few hours."

Archie looked at the other CSIs surrounding Grissom. "Um, yeah. That was what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Grissom. Can we, uh, go talk in the hall?"

Grissom was now officially worried. Why would Archie know where Sara was when no one on the team did? And what was so serious that it couldn't be discussed in front of the others? "What's wrong, Archie?" he asked the younger man, who looked decidedly panicked, as they left the room.

"There's um, something wrong with Sara. I don't know what – I mean, she didn't tell me – but she's been in my lab for a few hours now pretending to read, but she's really not, and I saw her crying, and she won't say a word, and . . ." his voice trailed off as he realized that Grissom was already walking toward the lab, leaving Archie behind. He scrambled to catch up, hoping he wasn't getting himself into too much trouble with Sara. Or with Grissom, for that matter.

Grissom let Archie enter the lab first, rather ashamed to be hoping that maybe the tech would catch the brunt of Sara's anger. Instead, they found a calm, composed Sara sitting where Archie had left her, absorbed in her journal. She looked up at them and said coolly, "Yes? A case, Grissom?"

"Uh, no. I just wanted to . . . check on you. None of us have seen you all night."

Sara snorted. "They've all seen me. They just didn't want to admit it, probably. So, now you see I'm fine. Can I go back to my reading?"

Grissom was surprised by the surly tone coming from that calm face. Was she still upset that he'd told her not to discuss their relationship at work? That must be it. Well, he decided, he wasn't going to play that game. Sara had sulked her way to getting what she wanted with him one time too many.

"Fine, as long as you keep me informed on where you are, do whatever you want." There, he could be cold too, Grissom thought as he walked out.

"Bastard," Sara muttered under her breath. She felt like throwing something, but ultimately decided that Archie didn't need to witness that particular show. Instead, she plopped back into her chair.

Archie watched Sara, still worried. Apparently it was up to him to keep the two CSIs from tearing each other's hair out. "Ok Sara, out with it. Tell me what's going on."

"What? No!" Sara was surprised he was even trying. She turned back to her reading.

"No, I'm serious, Sara. You know you want to scream about whatever's going on, and you know I'm about the only person around here without an emotional attachment to your team. What you tell me will stay with me – well, unless it involves you killing someone on video."

He was right, dammit, she wanted to vent. But her private nature won out over her desire to scream, and she shook her head. "Uh-uh, Arch."

Archie leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, waiting. She would talk if he gave her enough time.


	24. Well damn!

Chapter 24

Twenty minutes later, Sara slammed the journal shut with a groan. "Fine, you're right, I need to vent." Archie smiled. "But you have to swear to me on the safety of your video equipment that you're not going to tell anyone what I talk about."

"You know me better than that, Sara. I'm not going to say anything. Consider it CSI-tech privilege. Now spill." He set his chin in his palm, leaned on his elbow, and raised his eyebrows at the woman across from him.

Sara drew a deep breath. "Well it all started two nights ago . . ."

Archie listened as Sara described the trick she and Catherine had played on the men, Grissom waking up in Sara's bed, their disastrous dinner, and a confusing description of what Sara called "acknowledged tension." When she reached the part about walking in on the gossiping CSIs tonight, he winced. Sara was too intensely private to not want to tear into people who violated that privacy, but Archie knew she was so upset that she couldn't see that they had meant no harm. "That's just . . . what people do, Sara," he ventured.

She looked with him, eyes glittering with either pain or anger. "Well that's not what they do when it comes to me. They can gossip about each other all they want, but they can just leave me the hell out of it!" She punctuated this assertion by pounding her fist on his table.

Reaching out to steady a tottering stack of VHS tapes, Archie tried again. "But Sara, they really didn't mean any harm. I mean, you've heard them talking about each other like that before, and it's never offended the person in question. You work with a team of intensely curious people, and you just can't do something even _slightly _odd without them wanting to get to the bottom of it."

Her face fell. "Yeah, well maybe they just don't understand that I _am_ offended. If they have a question about me, they should bring it to me, not each other. Maybe I'm just weird like that."

"You need to tell them that, Sara. Everyone in this building respects you, but they can't read your mind. If it really bothers you, you have to say out loud, 'Please don't psychoanalyze me without coming to the source for details' or something."

"I guess I kinda know that, Arch – but it just felt like high school, where the 'in' group decides who you are without knowing you." She thought for a moment. "But yeah, I know what you're saying, and I guess maybe I can try to lighten up." Archie breathed a sigh of relief. "– But I haven't even told you the worst part about tonight yet," Sara added.

The words "uh-oh" flashed in big neon letters across his mind. "Let me guess – does it involve Grissom?" he asked. Sara nodded. "Wow this really hasn't been a good night for you. Come on, tell – and you're going to have to give me the details, not just weird euphemisms."

Sara groaned. "I don't even want to talk about this, I'm so mad at him." Archie tried to look sympathetic. "Ok so what happened was, there I go around the corner near Grissom's office about 10 minutes after I hear the team gossiping, and I hear Catherine and Grissom talking. Not being a _gossip_, unlike some people, I just kept walking. Then when I was almost out of hearing distance I hear Catherine bugging Grissom to tell her what's going on between us." Archie made commiserating noises. 

"So I decided to just listen for a few seconds, to make sure he wasn't going to actually TELL her anything. So I'm standing there, and Catherine goes, 'Oh come on Grissom, you know you want to tell me," or something like that, and I couldn't hear Grissom's answer, but then a few seconds later I hear Catherine again, 'Wow I didn't think you'd actually tell me, that's so funny!'" Banging on the table for emphasis, she added in case Archie didn't get it, "_He told her what happened between us!_"

"Now wait, Sara," Archie cautioned. "Do you know that he really did tell Catherine, or are you just guessing that based on what she said?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Well what else do you think 'gee I didn't think you were actually going to tell me' translates to?"

Sara had a point. Archie couldn't think of another good reason for Catherine to have said that – but he also didn't think Grissom was the type to kiss and tell. "Why don't you ask Grissom?"

            "Hah! He'd probably just go running to Catherine to tell her that, too!"

            Archie sighed. "Sara, you need to chill out. I know you're angry, and if things happened like you think they did, you have a right to be, but what if you're extrapolating in the wrong direction? Think about it. Before tonight, would you have thought that Grissom would spill his guts to anyone in a situation like this?" She shook her head.

"Right," Archie continued. "And Grissom does happen to be a very intelligent guy. So what if he made something up to just get Catherine off his back? Or what if 'I didn't think you'd tell me' meant exactly that – he didn't tell her?" Sara opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it and frowned.

"My point," he concluded, "is this: people can't know what's going on in your mind unless you tell them – so conversely, you should be careful in assuming you know what's going on around you unless you've heard the details straight from the source. And that means talking to Grissom to find out whether you really do need to beat him up."

Sara thought for a moment. "Well damn," she muttered. 


	25. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just Sara

Chapter 25

At the same time Sara was being interrogated by Archie, Grissom was carrying on an intense conversation with Fluffy the spider. "I will never understand women, Fluffy. One minute they're smiling, the next minute they want to devour you as you mate . . . er, date." He blinked. Perhaps he needed a vacation - he was starting to confuse Sara with a tarantula. Not a good idea, he'd be digging his hole that much deeper if he ever let that slip to her!

Grissom heaved a sigh. He'd made a good show of being angry with Sara for a few minutes, but the truth was that he was afraid he had, indeed, done something wrong. Grissom knew his people skills were lacking, and even more so when it came to his skills at close relationships or, dare he think it, romance. The last time he'd tried to be romantic he'd ended up being left by the woman in the middle of a swanky restaurant. But this was different; this was Sara. Screwing up was just not allowed.

Sara, he knew, was almost as bad with people as he was. But she was also idealistic, a characteristic which he had lost – if he ever had it – sometime during his stint as a coroner. She wanted romance, he supposed. Could one take romance lessons? Probably not, unless he wanted to ask Catherine for help, which he would rather cut off an arm than do.

Maybe he should just . . . ask Sara. He could come clean to her about his lack of skill; the Sara he knew would be sympathetic and probably offer to "tutor" him. Which, come to think of it, wouldn't be an unpleasant experience.

There was a knock on the door. Oh no, not Catherine to bother him again – he'd barely managed to come up with some fake story to get her off his back a few hours ago. "Come in," he growled.

Sara's head peeped through the doorway. "Well you sound like you're feeling about as genial as I am tonight. Can I come in?" He nodded, and she stepped quietly into the room, eyes hooded. Grissom motioned her to a chair, but Sara continued across the office and leaned against the corner of his desk, less than two feet from him.

 "I um . . . can I ask you something?" God, she hated when her voice sounded all tentative and shaky like this. Well, she might as well spit it out.

Before she could speak, Grissom held up his hand. "In a minute, Sara. First I have, uh, something to tell you." Any delay was welcome, Sara decided, hitching herself up to sit on the corner of the desk. She waited for him to speak.

"I just wanted to let you know that I, uh . . ." Grissom nervously began to clean his glasses. "That I'm not good at this romance stuff. I know we both said before 'I'm not good at this,' but I mean I'm _really_ not good at this. I don't know how to be . . . romantic. Or even affectionate, really. So I, um, just wanted to apologize for what I said to you earlier, if it upset you. Please just take me with a grain of salt – I'd never say or do anything to purposely hurt you."

That had been entirely too easy. Sara wasn't sure how to respond to such an admission. "That's, um, ok, Gris. I mean, I know you're not good at this – I do happen to be skilled in the art of deduction, and you've given me enough evidence to draw that particular conclusion." Grissom's shoulders dropped in relief, but tensed again when Sara continued. "But what I wanted to ask you was what you were talking to Catherine about earlier. I mean, not that I was listening or anything," she added quickly, "but I kinda couldn't help hearing her voice – it's rather loud – asking you about us. And then it, uh . . . it sounded like you told her about what happened today."

Grissom chuckled. "Ah, my little detective, this is what comes from skulking around corners and eavesdropping. Certainly I told Catherine 'what happened between us'." Sara's jaw dropped. He really had done it! Grissom quickly cupped a hand over Sara's mouth, which was surely preparing to blast him. "But what I told her wasn't the truth. Did you really think I'd talk about my private life with anyone but you, the person involved in it?" He looked at her in surprise. "You did! Sara, we can't build a . . . um, we can't build anything unless we trust each other."

Sara peeled his hand off her mouth, then held it, rubbing the back lightly. "I do trust you, Gris. Honestly, I do. But I know how close you are with Catherine, and I just didn't – don't – know how much you feel you can share with her."

She didn't trust him. Or, at least, she wasn't sure of him. "Sara, please. Catherine is my friend, and I feel comfortable talking to her about most things. But you . . . you're Sara, and you're . . . I don't know. You're just Sara." He'd wanted to say she was a hundred times more important to him than Catherine was, but he wasn't sure how Sara would react. Or how he would react to saying those words out loud. "I want you to feel that you can always trust me, even if we're having a knock-down, drag-out fight. Fighting is just what people do, Sara, and it won't affect how I see you."

That was probably the longest speech Sara had ever heard Grissom make, other than his high-volume rant earlier in the day. She was starting to think that the intensity of his emotion was proportional to the length of his sentences. "I know that, Gil. It's just going to take time, I guess. I don't know about you, but there just aren't that many people I trust, and I get jumpy when I think I might be losing one of the few I do." She shrugged, hoping he'd understand.

"I do, Sara," Grissom whispered as he hugged her gently. "You can always trust me, I promise." He kissed the top of her bowed head.

Archie walked past Grissom's open blinds and smiled. 


	26. I wish women came with instructions!

Chapter 26

The rest of the night passed without incident; the team was called out to only one case, a robbery, which was easily handled. As the hands of the clock crept toward 8AM, Grissom wondered what he was going to do about Sara. He couldn't very well invite himself back to her place after jumping down her throat when she'd mentioned it earlier. He didn't want to spend the day alone either, though. Being able to hug Sara, or even talk to her freely, was an experience so new that Grissom wanted to experience it constantly. He didn't want to spend a day without her now that he didn't have to.

At precisely 8 o'clock, Sara knocked on the door to his office again. "Hey . . . I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to, uh, catch a ride with Nick to pick up my car. No need to make you play chauffeur twice in once day," she said with a weak smile.

Grissom blinked. Was this a hint? Damn, he wished women came with an instruction manual. How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? With "see you later"? Or "I'll see you at work tonight"? "Uh . . . ok, Sara. Goodnight," he finally mumbled to her already-retreating form. Sighing, Grissom gathered his briefcase and his spider and shuffled toward his own car.

_Grissom's townhouse_

            When Grissom heard a knock on his front door, he had to stop himself from jumping out of his chair and running to answer it. It probably wasn't Sara, he reminded himself – did she even remember where he lived? He doubted it. He didn't bother to check the peephole. If it wasn't Sara, it was most likely Catherine, and he really didn't want to talk to his friend right now. 

He opened the door.

It was Sara, holding a bag of pancake mix and a bottle of syrup. "You didn't seem too keen on the idea of having pancakes at my house . . . so I figured I'd try yours." She smiled tentatively. "So . . . can I come in?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah, come on in!" Grissom was trying to assimilate the information that not only did Sara know where he lived, but she was at his front door. And she didn't even seem to be mad at him. He threw the door open, almost knocking himself in the head in the process. This was becoming a comedy; he needed to calm down.

Sara hoped Grissom wasn't angry at her for riding home with Nick instead of him. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted to be in a car with Grissom, it was just that she had been – and still was – feeling overwhelmed by the happenings of the past few days. She had needed time to think. 

Having spent the past two hours "thinking," she still had no idea how to handle all this, but at least she was feeling calmer. The pancakes were both a gesture of peace and an attempt at normalcy. "I think it's your turn to cook, Grissom," she smiled.

Grissom reached for the bag of mix, but Sara teasingly twitched it out of his hand. He raised his eyebrows. "Gee, this looks familiar, Sara. Are you going to get revenge on me for that flour episode yesterday?"

Sara smirked. "Maybe. Why don't we go into the kitchen and you'll find out one way or another?"

He liked the sound of that. Maybe he could get another peek at a wet Sara – oops, bad idea. Don't think about that. Think about pancakes. He followed her into the kitchen, smiling to himself.

"Finally, I get my chance to prove to you that I can cook, as long as it's not bread that you want." He reached for the bag of mix again and wasn't surprised when Sara continued with her game of keep-away. "Oh so it's like that, is it?" She nodded, trying to hide her grin. "Well then I guess I'll have to play as dirty as you do . . ." he said, inching closer until he had Sara pinned against the waist-high counter.

"Then again, perhaps there are things more interesting than pancakes," he said, leaning closer to her. Sara leaned back, moving the bag of mix behind her back. She fought it, but was soon mesmerized by his eyes. Unconsciously she leaned her face toward him while moving her body away. She blinked . . . and Grissom snatched the pancake mix out of her hand. Dropping a kiss on her cheek, he grinned. "Thanks, dear."


	27. I can't go with you and stay where I am

A/N: The songs in this chapter are "A Hard Day's Night" by the Beatles and "You Move Me" by Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood

Chapter 27

Sara harrumphed. "Don't call me 'dear,' you rotten sneak!" She pushed Grissom away from her and straightened up, putting her fists on her hips. "Just see if I compliment your cooking now!"

Grissom chuckled. "Wouldn't dare expect it. Now, you're stepping between me and my pancake mix – not an advisable action."

            "Hey, you and your mix enjoy yourself. I've got things of my own to do, bugman." She was glad to see Grissom looking worried at her comment. "Hey, relax, I didn't kill you yesterday, I probably won't kill you today. Now – I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't get yourself in too much trouble without me." She chucked him under the chin, making him narrow his eyes and scowl at her, and headed back out the front door.

            As he heard her car start up, Grissom wondered what she was up to. Sara was a dangerous opponent, and an unpredictable one. Oh well, might as well start breakfast. He turned on the radio, set the volume all the way up, and got to work with his pancakes, occasionally singing along with a lyric.

            When Sara pushed open Grissom's front door fifteen minutes later, she was almost driven back out the door by the volume of the music coming from the kitchen. Not only were the Beatles blasting through the radio, but Grissom . . . Grissom was singing! His eyes were squeezed shut as he flipped the pancakes and he was belting out, "So why on earth should I moan, 'cause when I get you alone, you know I feel ok, when I'm home everything seems to be right, when I'm home feeling you holding me tight, tight!" 

Sara leaned against the doorframe, enjoying the show being put on by an oblivious Grissom. This was apparently one of those "best of everything" radio stations, because as the Beatles faded out, the distinctive voice of Garth Brooks took over. She smiled; Garth was one of her favorites. She wondered if Grissom knew anything about country music, or whether she'd have to force him to appreciate it. Within a few seconds her question was answered as he picked up the song mid-verse.

"But you move me, you give me courage I didn't know I had. You move me, I can't go with you and stay where I am, so you move me . . ." Grissom had a surprisingly pleasant singing voice for one who didn't even speak unless he had to. Sara was impressed, not the least because he knew the words to one of her favorite songs.

She knew this one by heart, and when the first verse ended, Sara's voice blended smoothly into the music. "This is how love was to me, I could look and not see, going through the emotions not knowin' what they mean. And it scared me so much that I just wouldn't budge. I might have stayed there forever if not for your touch."

The sound of her voice made Grissom jump and almost drop the mixing bowl that he had started to wash. He flipped off the radio and barked, "Jesus, Sara, don't scare me like that, I'm an old man!"

Sara gave him an amused look. "You are not old, Gris. You're just well-seasoned."

" 'Well-seasoned'? You make me sound like dinner!"

"Hmm . . . not a bad idea," Sara said, wiggling her eyebrows at him. 

Grissom couldn't help laughing as she cast elevator eyes up and down his body. "Hey, if you behave maybe I'll let you talk about making me dinner later." She snorted at his pun. "And since when do you know country music?" he added. "I thought you said you listened to Greg's type of heavy metal."

"I listen to everything. Besides, what I said was that I headbanged with him to relieve stress, not that I particularly _cared_ for Kid Rock and his friends. Since when do _you_ know country?" He shrugged. Sara stuck her tongue out at him and marveled, "Wow, stop being so verbose, Gris, I can't handle your zero-word sentences.

"Well anyway, how 'bout you keep making my breakfast and I'll get us set up with orange juice and coffee." She held up a carton of orange juice and one of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. "These are what I had to run out to get. Not enough hands to get everything on the way here."

Grissom eyed the coffee with joy. He'd never mastered the art of making decent coffee for himself. Carefully setting the bowl back into the sink, he crossed the kitchen and grabbed Sara around the waist, swinging her around a few inches off the ground. "Have I ever told you how wonderful you are, Miss Sidle?"

Sara grinned. "No, but you have told me I look great in a towel. Now put me down, I'm too tall to not have my feet reach the floor!" 

Grissom gave her a smacking kiss on the lips and set her down gently. "The pancakes are ready, madam. How many would you like?"

Sara thought for a moment. "I dunno, maybe two or three?"

Grissom scooped three pancakes onto her plate, and then four onto his. Settling down at the table, Grissom smiled evilly. "You want syrup with your breakfast . . . or your dinner?"


	28. Does this mean I get a house key?”

Chapter 28

"You dirty old man," Sara laughed.

Grissom raised his eyebrows. "Hey, I thought you said I wasn't old!" He was gratified to see Sara quickly backpedal, muttering something that sounded like "figure of speech." Snickering, he reached across the table and snagged the last bite of her last pancake. 

Eyeing her suddenly empty plate, Sara sputtered, "No fair, Gris! What if I was still hungry?"

"Are you?"

She frowned. "Well, not really . . . but it's the principle of the thing. What if I _had _been?"

"I'd have fed you mine, of course."

She grinned. "In that case . . . I'm still hungry." Expecting him to pick up a piece on his fork and feed it to her, she glared at him when he pushed his plate toward her with a smirk. "I take it back! You _are_ a crotchety old man!"

Grissom tried to look horrified, despite her joking tone. "Oh, no Sara, please anything but that. Here, I'll feed you." Sara smiled complacently and opened her mouth for his fork. Grissom shook his head. "Uh-uh. You've got to come over here and let me feed you."

"Oh gee, no, anything but that," Sara mimicked. The two of them joked their way through the remainder of Grissom's breakfast. When they finished, Sara stood up and let out a heavy breath. "You stuffed me, Grissom! I don't think I can even waddle to my car."

"Who said anything about your car?" He shifted his eyes away from her. "I was, uh, hoping you'd spend some time over here, since I forced my way into your apartment for all of yesterday." 

He was relieved when Sara graced him with a smile that was almost blinding. "I'd like that," she said softly. "Thanks."

He smiled back. "You're welcome here any time, Sara." When Grissom realized what he'd said, he shot a subtle look at Sara. That had sounded . . . permanent. Not that there was a problem with permanent; he'd love to have Sara permanently – well, as much as anyone could "have" Sara Sidle – but he really had no clue what she wanted.

Sara gulped. That had sounded . . . like a commitment. What to say? She fell back on her old mainstay, humor. "Does this mean I get a house key?"

Grissom's mind went blank. This was not what he'd planned on conversing about today! Time to change the subject. He cleared his throat and said, "So what do you want to do today? It's 10 AM . . . I don't know about you but I've another hour or two of go-time in me before I'll be ready to fall asleep."

Sara nodded. The subject change suited her just fine. "Yeah, me too. In fact, at home I'd probably be up until one or two, but you tire me out, buddy." She punched his arm lightly and grinned. "I don't really have anything I need to do today – I mean, I have some files in my case, but they don't really need to be reviewed as of now." She was surprised to find Grissom smiling like he had case-breaking DNA for her. "What?"

"C'mere." He grabbed her hand and led her into his living room, a spacious room with wall-to-wall bookshelves and a comfortable-looking leather couch. Tugging Sara behind him, Grissom made his way to the wall. When they reached it he indicated a bookshelf with a grand flourish of his hand. "Take your pick, Sara."

Sara gaped. In front of her was a shelf holding every issue of _The American Journal of Forensics_ since 1979. "Wow. I knew you were super-organized, but I didn't think . . . wow. All my copies are in tatters after a month or two of reading. And I certainly don't have back issues from practically since I was born!" She saw that Grissom flinched. Oops. That hadn't sounded good. "I mean, I can't believe you've managed to not lose any of them, and keep them all in decent shape."

He wished Sara wouldn't keep reminding him of their age difference. He was having enough of a problem with it as it was without a young, beautiful woman reminding him of it every ten minutes. Managing a weak chuckle, he said, "Yeah, well, I've been called anal-retentive before. But hey, I knew they'd come in handy some day, and here I am using them to impress you!"

Sara hugged him. "And I _am_ impressed, I assure you. You really don't mind if I read some of these?" He shook his head. "Oh man Gris, I lo—" She choked. "Ahem, I mean, I LOVE this journal!" Grissom said nothing.

After studying the shelves for a few minutes, Sara selected three issues of the journal, looked at Grissom for an okay, and curled up in the corner of his couch. "Wait, what are you going to do while I read?"

"Oh I thought I'd commune with Fluffy. She's a little put-out from today's happenings."

Sara blinked. "Who's Fluffy? Sounds like a cat."

He wondered if Sara was scared of having arachnids within jumping distance. He sincerely hoped not. "Fluffy's my, uh . . . my tarantula." Sara's eyes widened and she unconsciously jerked her feet off the floor and onto the couch. "She's a very nice spider, Sara, I promise you."

            Hadn't she read somewhere that tarantulas could jump up to three feet at once? She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Um, no problem. Your house, after all. Just keep it – er, I mean her – on yourself and not on me."

            "Ok Sara, but you know . . . I think she's kinda longing for some female companionship," he deadpanned, struggling not to laugh when Sara squeaked and curled herself into an even smaller ball against the arm of the couch.


	29. She's easy compared to Sara!

Chapter 29

            An hour and a half later, Grissom had talked Fluffy down from her bristling state. It had been easy, he thought, compared to having to talk Sara down from one – and he had a lot of experience with that. Smiling at that thought, he looked up at Sara. She was looking at him, he saw. No, not at him, exactly . . . she was focused on Fluffy, who was currently sitting on his left shoulder. He put up a hand and let the spider feel her way onto it. When she was safely cradled in his palm, he inched closer to Sara. 

            "What are you doing, Grissom? I, uh . . . could you just stay over there with that thing?" He thought she would have forked the evil eye at him if her hands hadn't already been occupied by a journal.

            "What's this? Sara Sidle, the iron-willed and iron-stomached, afraid of a little spider?" He scooted over another foot.

            Sara was immensely grateful that Grissom had invested in a large couch. "It's not the spider part that scares me so much as the fact that that thing is NOT little! Small spiders I can handle. But big furry ones? Uh-uh, no way, I'll thank you to keep them to yourself." After a moment, she added, "And keep yourself at least three feet away from me."

Grissom chuckled. "She doesn't bite humans, Sara, I promise. Anyway, tarantula venom is hardly damaging to _homo sapiens sapiens_; we're entirely too big to be injured by a little shot of Fluffy's juice." 

Sara was not comforted. "I know that, intellectually. But still, spider bites are painful. And . . . that thing is HAIRY!"

Grissom compressed his lips, trying to hide his smile. "So am I, Sara, and you seem to like me." He was amused when she blinked, speechless for the moment. "Besides, if you're going to . . . spend time . . . with me, you'll have to get used to the _other_ woman in my life: my spider."

She grimaced. He wasn't really trying to blackmail her into liking his spider, was he? "So does that mean that if 'Fluffy' here doesn't like me, I get the boot?"

Grissom was offended. "Sara! Of course not! I may like my bugs, but I like you more."

 Sara stared at him. Such a concession from Gil "Bugman" Grissom was huge. Disgusted with herself, she realized that she actually felt ten times better now that he'd said she was more important than a bug. Why _shouldn't_ she, Sara Sidle, be more important than some eight-legged beast? That line of reason didn't get her far, though, as she soon realized that Grissom tended to like bugs a lot more than he liked humans; for him to prefer a human, that person would have had to make an incredible impression on him. 

A smile slowly spread across Sara's face. Apparently she really did affect him that much. Feeling charitable, Sara sighed. "Ok Gil. I'll . . . touch it. If I must. But I'm telling you, if it bites, or jumps on me, or anything, you're SO dead."

" 'She,' Sara – Fluffy's a she, not an it." He realized that Sara probably didn't care, and if she knew anything about spiders she probably wouldn't want him to keep reminding her of the sex of the one in question; female arachnids are much more aggressive than males. He decided he'd leave out that tidbit the next time he plugged spiders to her.

"Ok, come here," he continued. Sara gave him a long, wary look and moved toward him, sitting back down about a foot from him. "Closer, Sara – I want her to be able to walk between our hands." 

Sara scowled, muttering, "I have long arms," but she moved an inch closer and stretched out her arm, palm down. Grissom made a twirling motion with his hand, telling her to flip her hand over. "I'd rather not expose my radial artery to it."

"Trust me, Sara. She's used to being held in a palm. Making her sit on the back of your hand might get her . . . agitated," Grissom protested, knowing full well the effect his comment would have on her. He was right; no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Sara's palm was facing up. Apparently "agitated" was not the state she wanted the tarantula to be in. "Now, I'm going to encourage her to walk onto your hand. You'll feel a tickle, so please don't jerk when you do." 

Sara gulped. "Oookay . . ." Please god don't let her hand shake. Spiders bit when frightened. Closing her eyes, she opened her palm, laying her fingers under Grissom's. The hairs on the back of his fingers were itching her hand. "Ok, just DO it!"

"She's there, Sara. Open your eyes."

Sara looked down and eyed the spider. The spider appeared to be eyeing her in return. "You promise she won't bite?" Grissom nodded with a "do I need to repeat myself?" look on his face. "Um . . . nice spider. Nice Fluffy. Umm . . . my name's Sara. Hi. Please don't bite me . . ."

Grissom listened to Sara ramble to the spider. She was actually trying to make friends with his pet tarantula . . . just to make him happy. He cupped Sara's palm in his, holding Fluffy with her. Raising his other hand, he laid it lightly on the nape of her neck. Sara beamed at him, flushing slightly. "Sara . . . you're amazing."


	30. My mother was deaf

Chapter 30

Sara looked up at him in surprise. "Did you just say what I think you said?" Grissom was just spilling his guts to her today – not that she didn't like it, mind you. Maybe he needed someone like him, who understood what he spoke about, to confide in. "Oh don't flatter yourself, Sara," she thought. "Maybe he just opens up around the damn spider, you don't know."

Grissom considered the woman next to him. Even after the events of the past few days, she evidently still wasn't sure of him. Well he supposed he'd brought it upon himself. After years of being pushed away by him, perhaps Sara had a right to doubt when he tried to pull her closer. "What do you think I said, Sara?" Yeah, stall, Gil, that'll get you far . . .

"Oh never mind. I thought I heard you say something weird. Forget it. So can you, uh, take this spider back now?" Sara had relaxed slightly, Grissom noticed – she no longer looked terrified of the docile spider. Of course, she didn't look like she wanted to make friends with Fluffy, either.

Holding out his hand to touch hers, he repeated softly, "I said that you're amazing. You're sitting here holding a creature that evidently terrifies you, just because I asked you to. I just find that . . . well, amazing."

Sara blinked, watching the tarantula make its way back onto her master's hand. He really had said that she was amazing. Hell, she'd hold two spiders to hear him say that again! A smile slowly spread across her face as she absorbed his compliment. "Got any other bugs you want me to commune with, now that I'm on a roll?"

Grissom shook his head with a laugh. Returning Fluffy to her terrarium, he said, "I think Fluffy has been enough of an experience for you today. How about we save the dragon slaying and beetle-holding for another day – preferably after I've fortified you with some alcohol?"

"Why Grissom, I do believe you want to get me drunk," Sara chirped in a syrupy southern accent. Continuing in her normal voice, she added, "Not that I'm averse to the idea. Maybe you'll let me drag you out to a bar or something one of these days." She suddenly paused for a moment, apparently thinking, then giggled.

"Are you laughing at me, Sara?"

She shook her head, still grinning. "Nope. I was just thinking that I'd finally be able to tell Warrick what you drink when you go out at night."

"Tell him . . . what?" Grissom cast Sara a confused look, feeling like he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and back into Greg's lab of yesterday. "Please tell me this doesn't have anything to do with Greg blackmailing you." 

Sara shook her head. "Nah, totally different inside joke. When we had that case with the deaf boy, I was wondering how you learned to sign. So I asked Warrick, who, in his infinite wisdom, asked me 'What does Grissom drink when he goes out at night?'"

Grissom was starting to get it. "And you didn't have a clue about either question." Sara nodded, looking hopeful. Grissom wondered if he should just . . . tell her. He knew he'd have to do it eventually if Sara was going to know him on a more personal level, and the perfect opportunity was staring him in the face at the moment. "Well you know the answer to the drink question if you remember anything of our little night of charades – I'm a martini man."

She had thought for a moment that he might actually tell her one of his secrets. More fool she, Sara supposed. "Shaken, not stirred," she added, grubbing up a smile for the man next to her.

Grissom knew she was disappointed and thinking he wouldn't tell her. This was both the perfect time to tell Sara his story . . . and to drop the subject. He mulled this choice over for a few seconds, finally realizing that he really did want someone to share this burden with him. "As for the other . . ." He watched as Sara's eyes widened, then fixed on his face. 

He wondered how she was going to react. Would she cry? Hit him for keeping something so serious from her? No, he didn't really think she'd do either. His Sara saw the world in black and white. She would want to know what she could do for him – and what he could do for himself. Well, he'd just have to deal with whatever came – Grissom was, frankly, sick of imagining Sara's thoughts and actions. He wanted the reality.

"My mother was deaf from the time I was a little boy. She had a progressive disease called otosclerosis. It involves the solidifying of a small bone in the ear, the stapes bone." Sara was nodding, he saw. Knowing her, she'd probably read a book on the anatomy of the inner ear during college just for fun.

"She and I learned ASL together as she went deaf. By the time I was 12, we were both fluent, and signing eventually began to feel more natural than speaking, at least to me. Speaking just seemed so . . . harsh. I know you make jokes about how I never talk – well, there's the reason. I find vocal communication to be almost, well, ugly. Or, at least, I _found_ it so. Now . . . the sounds don't seem as harsh, or as loud." He stopped, swallowing what little saliva was left in his dry mouth as he thought of how to continue. Sara was good – maybe he wouldn't have to say it, maybe she'd guess.

He didn't want her to guess. He wanted to put the ugly reality into words for her. Ducking his head, he spat it out. "In fact, nothing seems as loud. Lately I find myself wishing Mom were still alive – she was the only person I could talk to who knew what deafness was like. But now . . . I'm learning that for myself . . . as my own hearing fades." Grissom took a deep breath and focused his sight on Sara, wanting to see her reaction. 

For the longest time, there was none.


	31. Deaf doesn't mean disabled

A/N: As far as I know, the signing in this chapter is correct. I don't know ASL or finger spelling though – got all the info from secondary sources – so if I have something wrong, please let me know

Chapter 31

Sara's face remained perfectly blank for what seemed, at least to Grissom, like hours. Behind the serene façade, though, he knew her brain was working madly to assimilate and verify what he had said.

She couldn't believe she hadn't figured it out before. His blasting music . . . staring at people's lips . . . not hearing people calling . . . all explained. Deaf? Grissom?

"Is there any medical remedy? Something you can do?"

Grissom nodded. "There's a surgery – it involves removing the stapes bone –that's highly effective for otosclerosis . . ."

He was cut off by Sara's excited voice. "That's great! So you can get this fixed!" Yes, he mused, she was a black-and-white sort of girl.

"Let me finish, Sara. There is a surgery . . . but I haven't decided whether to have it yet."

She blinked, not understanding. "But you said it's highly effective. You don't have to go deaf. Why wouldn't you have the surgery?"

This was what had worried him about telling his friends – they weren't going to understand his hesitation. "I wish you could have met my mother, Sara. She was deaf . . . but she wasn't disabled. Not being able to hear won't ruin a life, or even impair it." Sara started to speak, but he held up his hand to stop her.

"You see deafness as a pathology – something to be fixed. But to a deaf person, it's just a part of who they are. Humans are highly adaptable, and not hearing never slowed my mother down, the same way that being little doesn't slow down people like Miss Grace."

She shook her head, not comprehending. "But you don't _have_ to adapt. You can head off that necessity!"

He tried a different tactic. "Would you want to undergo surgery to make your hair," he began, flicking a small curl that had escaped her blow-dryer, "naturally straight?"

"Of course not. My hair is just part of my body."

"But you wouldn't ever have to 'adapt' yourself by straightening it," he reminded her.

"It's just not necessary. Straightening it may be a pain in the ass, but it doesn't get in the way of my life," she concluded triumphantly.

"Neither did my mother's deafness."

"But . . ."

"I understand your argument, Sara. It's one I've had with myself. What I'm trying to explain to you is that the decision to 'fix' my hearing is nowhere near as clear-cut as you think."

Sara's body seemed to wilt. Biting her lip, she nodded. "I see. It's your decision, of course." Speaking almost to herself, she added, "But if you go deaf . . . I won't be able to talk to you."

Grissom's eyes widened. He hadn't really thought about how allowing himself to lose his hearing would affect others in his life. "Oh Sara, no. I'm learning to read lips, and people who lose their hearing as adults don't usually forget how to speak. And you . . . everyone on the team . . . could learn ASL."

She didn't look reassured, he noticed. "Come here, Sara." She looked at him in surprise, but crossed the couch to sit next to Grissom. "Give me your right hand." She did. He wrapped his hand around hers, manipulating her stiff fingers and translating out loud as he went. "S-a-r-a- S-i-d-l-e."

"Show me again," she demanded when he finished fingerspelling her name. Brow furrowed, she watched his fingers dance. "What about your name?"

Grissom smiled sheepishly. He crossed his hands, palms down and fingers interlocked and wiggling, then separated them and drew his right hand toward his body. It continued up to his head, index finger pointing, and finally gestured outward from his right ear.

Sara blinked.

"I know, it's kinda silly. But bear in mind that I made it up when I was 8. It's a spider," he explained, demonstrating the interlocked fingers again, "combined with the letter 'g'," he showed her the pointed index-finger part, "and ending with a gesture to indicate that I hear." He paused. "Or at least, heard."

Sara laughed. "Even as a kid you were a spider-lover, huh?" Grissom nodded, smiling, and she continued, "Does everyone have a sign for themselves like that? I could have one for myself?"

"Sure. But it helps to know sign language before you start trying to come up with signs!"

"Teach me."

"I will. C'mere," he said as he pulled her off the couch toward another bookshelf. After searching for a few minutes, Grissom retrieved a book on American Sign Language from the bottom shelf. "I keep this to give myself refresher courses every now and then. You can have it to study from, and I'll teach you as best I can – but I warn you, I'm better at teaching entomology than I am at teaching languages."

"I trust you to teach me. But let's save that for some other time – I need to go to  bed." She flushed. "I mean, I need sleep." That still didn't sound good. "Not here, of course – I mean, I'll go home – I wouldn't want to impose . . ."

She stopped as Grissom took her hand and wiggled his eyebrows licentiously. "My bed is your bed, my budding spider-woman."


	32. Come here and keep me warm, Sara

Chapter 32

Sara choked. "Budding spider woman, Grissom? You sure Fluffy's venom hasn't gone to your head?"

He grimaced comically. "Oh shush. It sounded funnier in my head. Now . . . sleep." Sara was looking rather uncomfortable. He hoped she didn't feel like he was forcing her to stay with him. "If you'd rather sleep at your own home, Sara, I'd understand. I mean, I don't want you to feel like you have to stay here."

"No, it's not that. I just feel kinda . . . awkward. Last time I slept with you I didn't know it – much less stressful, let me tell you!" Shrugging, she sighed. "But I'll admit, it felt nice waking up next to someone else. I just, um . . ." She stopped abruptly, biting her lip. She couldn't very well announce to Grissom that she wanted to clear up what they were going to DO in the bed before they got in it!

"Spit it out, Sara. I won't bite, promise."

She could definitely see how signing something like this might work better than trying to say it. She was pretty sure, though, that the reference book under her arm couldn't tell her how to say, "I don't want to do anything but sleep," in a more polite way.

"Nothing, Grissom. Don't worry about it, I was just thinking to myself." She could handle this. Sara had long ago mastered the art of saying "no I won't have sex with you" without speaking a word, and though she hoped she wouldn't have to use it on Grissom, she was glad she had its added layer of protection.

Grissom looked suspicious, but let it pass. "Ok, Sara." Now it was his turn to look embarrassed. "Did you, uh, need to borrow something to sleep in? You're welcome to one of my shirts." That sounded bad. He knew it sounded bad. For the hundredth time since he'd woken up next to Sara he wished that he knew how to be smooth with women.

Sara nodded. "Yeah, that'd be, um, good." She smiled at him tentatively. "As long as you have one long enough to actually cover me."

Grissom gulped, reminded of the sight of her rolling out of her bed in a "physicists do it with force" sleep-shirt. "No problem." He grabbed one of his undershirts from the drawer and passed it to her, watching as Sara retreated to the bathroom to change. Then it occurred to him: what was HE going to sleep in? Grissom usually slept in his boxer shorts – would that bother Sara? It was a moot point, he decided a few moments later, because he had nothing else more modest to sleep in unless he went to bed fully clothed.

When Sara came out of the bathroom, Grissom was already in his bed, fighting the urge to hide his head under the covers. Sara was right; this had been much easier when one of them wasn't conscious. He managed a weak smile, which she answered with an equally weak one as he held back a corner of the covers for her.

Sara slipped in, lying stiffly on the edge of the bed, as far from Grissom as possible. Chewing on her lip, she tried to relax. Five minutes later she admitted to herself that it wasn't working. Why was she so uncomfortable? This was Grissom; she'd already slept with him two days running, albeit once unknowingly. He was probably asleep, not uncomfortable in the least. What was wrong with her?

Turning onto her right side she whispered, "Grissom? You awake?"

He raised his head. "I'm awake, Sara. Why?"

"I, um . . . I know this sounds silly, but I'm so used to sleeping close to you now that it feels weird to not be sleeping that way. Could you, um . . . could I . . ."  She stopped, knowing she sounded stupid.. 

Grissom smiled into the pillow. He had been feeling the same way, but he was glad Sara had been the one to say it out loud. He figured he'd give her a break now. "Come here and keep me warm, Sara."

She scooted toward him, letting out a small sigh as Grissom wrapped his arms around her. One the edge of sleep, she leaned up, kissed his shoulder, and whispered, "Thanks." 


	33. He's not a sex toy, I tell you!

Chapter 33

Grissom's eyes fluttered open a few hours later. Something was missing, he thought; after a few seconds he realized that it was Sara's warmth. Sitting up, he blinked. "Sara?" He jumped when her voice came from only a few inches away.

"Yeah, Grissom?" She was sitting on the bedroom floor, wearing his t-shirt and a pair of his boxers. And looking quite delicious, he mentally added as she stood up.

"What are you doing up at," he consulted the slightly blurry bedside clock, "four o'clock?"

She raised the book she was reading, showing him the cover to his ASL book. Then, laying the book on the night table, she tentatively opened her left hand and circled her right hand in an upside-down 'V' over it.

Grissom grinned. "Reading, huh? You'd rather read than sleep with me?"

Sara looked thoughtful for a moment, head cocked to the side. After a few seconds she shrugged and said with an answering smile, "I don't know how to sign 'hell no.' But you know I can never sleep for long stretches. You can go back to sleep if you want – I promise that I won't make any noise practicing my sign language." She smirked.

Grissom shrugged. Reaching for his glasses, he said thoughtfully, "No, I'm awake now."  As he settled the glasses on his face and turned back to Sara, he stopped. "Um . . . you're wearing glasses." 

She raised an eyebrow at his incredulous tone. "I'm a geek, Grissom – what did you expect? I wear contacts most of the time, anyway, I just didn't feel like putting them in this morning." 

He had to laugh. Sara was right, he shouldn't have been surprised. "Good point," he admitted gruffly. Then with a chuckle. "But mine are thicker, so there. Now . . . you want to practice some signing?"

Sara frowned. "I've only been reading for about an hour, Grissom – I don't think I'm quite good enough to carry on a conversation with you yet."

"You'd be surprised. They say that the best way to learn a language is total immersion, you know. Give it a try, Sara."

"Ooookay, Grissom. What do you want me to say?"

"Let's start by making you a sign. What would you like to incorporate?"

Sara shrugged. "Oh man, Grissom, I don't know. You have bugs and your first initial and hearing . . . there's not anything so clear-cut about me – well, except my initials."

"Oh, come on. You like computers, you read even more than I do. You hate spiders," he grinned, "and you're from California."

"I don't know the signs for any of that, Grissom!"

"But I do. Now, watch. Here's 'computer', 'book,' and 'California'," he said, demonstrating each. "And here's the letter 's'. So, take your pick."

Sara thought for a few minutes. "Ok I'm going to try this. Don't laugh."  She made a 'c'-shape with her right hand and ran it up and down her left forearm, paused for a moment trying to remember the next part, then brought her right arm up to her right ear, pointing to it and then forming a 'y'-shape. She ended with a slightly awkward attempt at the letter 's," fist clenched forward. Grimacing, she shook her head. "I told you I didn't know any of these signs yet, Grissom."

"That wasn't bad at all, Sara. It was a little jerky, but I could tell what you were signing – computer, California, the letter 's'. Not bad for a beginner."

"Oh thanks, old man. If I knew how to sign 'bitch,' I'd do it now!"

"I'll refrain from teaching you that one just yet, my dear. Now, watch me." He laid his hand across his chest, drew it across his face while smiling broadly, and finished with the sign they had just created for Sara.

She grinned, displaying the gap between her teeth that he found so adorable. "You called me beautiful!" Putting it together in her mind she signed it back to him, repeating out loud, "My . . . beautiful . . . Sara." 

"It's true!" he asserted.

Smiling inwardly, Sara frowned thunderously at him. "I'll have you know that I don't belong to you or to anybody, Grissom!"

Uh-oh. "Um, I . . . I didn't mean to be insulting, Sara, really, it's just an idiom . . ."

"Oh shush, I'm kidding. Thank you for the compliment, Grissom." She leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Once I figure out how to return the compliment, I will. Now, what do you want to do for the rest of today? We've got a good 3 or 4 hours before work."

"Let's . . . let's go out, Sara. To lunch, or to a movie."

Sara looked at him. "Out? I, um, don't know of any movies I want to see."

"You go to movies with that Hank fellow, Sara. What's wrong with going to movies with me?"

"There's nothing _wrong_ with going to the movies with you, Grissom. I just am kinda surprised that you want to go out at all. And I don't know if you'd really like the kinds of movies that are playing lately, the kind that Hank likes to see."

Ok, he'd admit it. He was jealous. Horribly, terribly jealous. "Fine, Sara. We don't have to go to the movies. Save that pastime for when you go out with your _boyfriend_," he spat. 

Sara couldn't believe he'd said that. "Hank is NOT my boyfriend, Grissom!"

"Right, Sara. Fine. What the hell are you doing with me if you'd rather be out with him, anyway?"

"Who said I'd rather be out with him?" She was shouting by now. She _hated_ it when people threw Hank in her face. All he had ever been was someone to get out of the house with, a way to tear herself away from her computer and her journals, but no one believed that. She'd told Grissom and the rest of the team every time they'd brought him up, but nooo, they were convinced she was using him as a sex toy or something. "Maybe I would rather be out with him, if he didn't throw YOU in my face. What would he care, it's not like _you're_ my boyfriend either, Grissom!"

He flinched. "Then I repeat, Sara: why are you here?"

"You know what? You're right. Why AM I here? I'm leaving. Call me when you learn to trust me." She grabbed her clothes and pushed past him through the bedroom doorway. Grabbing her purse and keys, unmindful of the fact that she was still dressed in his clothes, Sara slammed out the door of Grissom's house. 


	34. I do believe it’s your underclothing!

Chapter 34

This was not good, Grissom decided as he walked into his office that night. Catherine was already in there, settled in his chair and holding . . . uh-oh. She was holding the clothes Sara had left his house wearing that afternoon. Had she talked to Sara?

"Hello Gil." Catherine drew out his name, leaving no doubt that she knew _something_ – or at least suspected. She lightly tossed the pile of clothes up and down, looking steadily at him.

"Evening, Cath." He tried to sound calm. "What have you, uh, got there?"

"Why Grissom, I do believe it's a pile of your underclothing. Strange, huh – how could THAT have ended up here in your office?"

He shrugged very deliberately. "You have as much idea as I do. Maybe I lent some clothes to one of the guys a while ago." That sounded plausible – maybe he could convince her. 

Catherine smirked. "That's not what I think. Let's look at the facts, shall we?" Not giving Grissom a chance to tell her no, she continued, "Here we have a pair of what are apparently your boxers and one of your undershirts. When I came in, they were folded neatly on the seat of your desk chair. No note or anything. You want to know what deductions those facts led me to?"

"Not particularly, but you're probably going to tell me anyway. Can I at least have my chair back?"

She smiled. "In a minute. Now, first – the clothes were on your chair, essentially underneath your desk. That leads me to surmise that whoever put them there didn't want the office at large to know they had been wearing your clothes."

"Possibly. Or possibly they just didn't think leaving my underwear on top of my desk was polite."

"Touché," Catherine responded, "but I'm not done. There was no note with the clothing saying 'thank you for the loan' or anything. This tells me that it wasn't Nick who borrowed these clothes. Mr. Southern-Gentleman Stokes would always leave a thank-you for any loan."

"Maybe he forgot."

"Don't think so, Gil. When have you ever known Nick to forget his manners?" She nodded as Grissom shrugged. "Exactly. So, next deduction." She shook out his boxer shorts, holding them up for him to see. "See this rolled-over waistband? That means they were too long for whoever wore them. Warrick is four inches taller than you. He would have been trying to hike them in the other direction. Even Greg is the same height as you, though I can't imagine how he would ever end up wearing your clothes."

He could see where she was going with this. Grissom thought furiously, trying to come up with a way to head off her train of thought. "Catherine, I really don't think this is appropriate for . . ."

"Oh shut up. SOMEONE left a pile of your underwear in your office. I think that's a pretty serious offense if you don't know who it was – it means they stole your clothes. And you wouldn't want something like that to go unpunished, would you?"

He was screwed. He knew it. Damn, damn, damn. "Ok, Catherine. Finish. What great deductions have you drawn from my underwear?"

"Well, as I've already established, it wasn't Nick, Warrick, or Greg. The person had to be shorter than you, and they didn't want anyone else to know they'd borrowed your clothes. Know what that sounds like to me?" She raised her eyebrows. "A woman. And there are only two women in this place who could possibly, in the tiniest way, have the faintest excuse to borrow your clothes: me, or Sara. We both know it wasn't me. Guess where that leaves us?"

His only resort now was to try not to react to Catherine's words. "I don't know why Sara would possibly have my clothes, Catherine. You'd have more reason to borrow them than she would. How do I know that you didn't, and just don't want to admit it?"

"Because I haven't been in your house in weeks, let alone your bedroom, which I've never been in at all."

"Maybe they came from the extra clothing I keep in my locker. That particular shirt and shorts didn't have to come directly from my house."

Catherine gave him a predatory smile. "Well, we can solve that puzzle pretty easily, can't we? Go check your locker and see if your change of clothes is still there." She leaned back in the chair with a disgustingly superior look on her face.

She had him trapped but good. She obviously knew that his extra clothes were still in his locker. If he admitted that and claimed that no one had been in his bedroom to borrow his clothes, then she would probably announce to the world at large that someone had stolen Grissom's underwear. Catherine was nothing if not good at getting what she wanted.

"What do you want me to say, Catherine? For all you know it was an old flame of mine, dropping off things she borrowed long ago." 

He was cut off by Catherine's unladylike snort. "The only flames you've had in the years I've known you are one," she held up one finger, "an anthropologist who is now married. Two," she held up another finger and said with a shudder, "a professional dominatrix who wouldn't be caught dead wearing underwear that didn't have leather and spikes. And three," she help up a third finger, "Sara. I've proved it two ways now, Grissom. Want to go for a third?"

He scowled. "No, Catherine, I don't. Think what you want about my clothes, but don't you dare start slandering Sara around the lab. Or anyone else," he belatedly added. "If I hear that this conversation has left my office, you're in deep shit, friend or no."

Catherine could only stare at him. He'd confirmed her suspicions, and with a vehemence that she'd rarely seen from calm Gil Grissom. "Sure Gil. You know I wouldn't do that." But, she added silently, she would corner Sara and find out what SHE had to say about all this.


	35. Bonus!

Chapter 35

Sara was not pleased. She'd arrived early to work and left Grissom's clothes on his office chair, figuring no one was going to pull it out but him. Just her luck, not five minutes after she'd left the room, Catherine sauntered into it. She hadn't come out again. And now Grissom had gone in, and neither of them had come out still. This was shaping up to be a bad replay of yesterday's shift. At least she knew that Grissom wasn't going to blurt out that he'd been sharing a bed and clothes with Sara for days. Though she rather thought it'd serve him right in this case to have to deal with Catherine's freaking out at that particular revelation.

She ground her teeth. Reminding herself to calm down, that her privacy was in no danger, Sara made her way to the breakroom. Nick and Greg were both there, just pouring cups of what was presumably Greg's premium coffee. "Hey Sar, what's up?" Nick greeted her cheerfully.

Sara struggled to keep her expression amiable. "Oh not much, Nicky. How bout with you guys?"

Nick shrugged, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Sara supposed he was just now remembering her confrontation with him and the other CSIs yesterday. Well, none of them had apologized to her, so he could just squirm until he got the balls to do so.

"You're getting as closemouthed as Grissom, Nick," she advised him as she walked out of the room. "Trust me, don't make that your goal – it won't get you anywhere." She thought of Grissom embarrassedly explaining to her how he disliked vocal communication and felt a pang of guilt. Maybe she should have stayed this afternoon . . . he'd told her something he hadn't confided to anyone else, displayed his trust in her, and then she'd walked out just because he'd mentioned Hank.

No, she reminded herself staunchly. Not "just because he'd mentioned Hank." Because he'd said she'd rather be with Hank. And because he refused to believe that her relationship with the EMT was innocent. And – and this was the kicker – because Grissom had implied that she was some sort of . . . cheap woman or something, who jumped from man to man to keep herself amused. Be with Hank, indeed! 

What she'd said had been partly true, though – Sara liked to go out with Hank because Hank, unlike most men, never pushed. He seemed to be in awe of her, and though it was an unpleasant thought, it meant that he allowed her to have her own life. Hank wouldn't get drunk and tell her to kiss him because he'd be too shy. Hank would never refuse to speak to her at work, he always let her drive his car, and he definitely wouldn't practically call Sara a slut because she didn't want to go to the movies.

The problem was that Hank couldn't ever make her day by lending her journals she'd been dying to read . . . or talk her into making friends with his pet insects . . . or make washing flour out of her hair a wonderful experience. Hank didn't understand how Sara couldn't comprehend people. Then again, he also didn't understand what a quark was. Neither of which counted in his favor.

She wished she could choose which men to love. Someone like Hank, easy to handle and kind, would make her life a lot easier than all-too-prickly Gil Grissom. It didn't work like that, though. She'd tried to feel something for him – even embarrassed the shit out of herself over him at a crime scene once – but the most she could manage was a desire to ruffle his hair the way she would a brother's. And god knew she'd tried to fight her feelings for Grissom, but that hadn't worked either. Even when he treated her like a pesky little sister, she still had to fight the urge to kiss him.

Pulling herself out of her reverie, Sara realized she had made a circle around the fishbowl and was headed toward Archie's lab. At least she wasn't crying this time, she mused as she pushed open the door. "Hey Arch."

Archie looked up in surprise. "Oh, Sara, hey. Listen, I've got a lot to do tonight, so please tell me I don't need to ride to your rescue again. Not that I minded," he added, grinning sheepishly, "but once a week is enough for me."

Sara leaned against the doorjamb, crossing her arms in front of her. "Very funny. No, I don't need you to 'rescue' me again. I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate your doing it. Well, when it doesn't make me want to smack you, that is."

Archie relaxed. "Well that's ok, then – as long as the thankful side wins out whenever you're actually within striking distance. And hey, Greg's jealous as hell now that I got to be your white knight and he didn't."

Sara grinned. "Bonus." Giving him a jaunty wave, she headed back into the hallway.


	36. Do you know you're reading a Cosmo!

Chapter 36

Sara made her way back to the breakroom, hoping it would be empty this time. It was, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Plopping down on the couch, she picked up a magazine and began flipping through it as a cover for her thoughts.

She wasn't really angry at Grissom anymore, she realized after a few minutes of reflection. A sort of sad resignation had replaced the rage. He didn't trust her, she didn't trust him . . . what a couple they made. She almost had to laugh. Almost.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow approaching the doorway. Catherine the ringleader, great. Quickly flicking her gaze back to the magazine, she tried to look absorbed.

"You've gotta be kidding me, Sara. You're not reading. Do you realize you're trying to look totally absorbed in a _Cosmopolitan_ that Greg brought in to drool over?" She smirked as Sara checked the cover with a horrified look on her face and dropped it into her lap. "So can I talk to you?"

"'Bout what?" Sara questioned warily.

"Yesterday."

Sara sighed and set the magazine back on the table. "Ok. Talk."

"I'm sorry you caught us talking about you. I won't say I'm sorry we were talking about you, because I'm not. That's what we do here - we try to solve puzzles. And you, Sara Sidle, are a big one."

Sara eyed her impassively. "Was that supposed to be an apology? Cause it didn't sound much like one to me."

"Half apology, half explanation. I am sorry that you got hurt – we never intended that. But we both know that maybe tonight everyone'll be gossiping about Nick's latest date, and maybe next week it'll be your turn to get talked about again. It's unavoidable."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it. You never see me talking behind your backs."

Catherine's mouth quirked. "And that might be why you sometimes feel like you're not part of the team. Face it, Sara, we wouldn't be human if we didn't try to figure each other out. You should try it sometime, it's fun." Before Sara could protest, Catherine quickly continued, "I don't mean vicious gossip. I've never seen any of our CSIs speak badly about others behind their backs. I just mean . . . well, like I know you all – or at least the younger guys – have discussed what I must've been like when I was dancing. They don't mean offense, they don't look at me as an object; it just fascinates them that I used to be something so different from what I am now." She shrugged. "And what fascinates people about you is your life outside of work, because none of us know jack shit about it."

Sara leaned back on the couch, crossing her legs. "I know. But I'd much rather have people come up to me and ask than exclude me and try to build their own theories."

"I'll keep that in mind," Catherine grinned, "and inform the guys next time they start yapping about you. Which they will."

"You might want to also add that if I hear that the guys have been psychoanalyzing me again without my permission, they're going to be missing some very important parts of their anatomy after I get through with them." She tried to sound serious, but a smile broke through.

Catherine shook her head, laughing. "I'll tell them that too. Now – let's try something, ok?" Sara raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't want us to talk about you behind your back, so I'm going to ask you to your face: care to tell me how a pile of Grissom's clothes got into his office tonight? Early enough, I might add, that only you and I were here."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "How would I know? Maybe you borrowed them the last time you slept with him."

"Ouch! Down, girl. First off, I've never had that kind of relationship with Grissom and you very well know it. Second, I'm not accusing you of anything – I'm asking, woman to woman, because I know it was either you or one of the day shift people. And I HIGHLY doubt Ecklie's been wearing Grissom's underwear."

Sara cracked a smile at that one. "Why would I tell you anything, when I know you're going to carry it back to the rest of the night shift?"

"And just how would you know that?" Catherine shot back. "You've never trusted me, so you really have no idea whether I spill secrets or not."

"Well, do you?"

"Occasionally," she admitted. "But not if you say to me, 'This goes nowhere, Cath. Don't tell anyone.'"

Sara mulled that over. On one hand, it would be nice to have someone to spill all this to. On the other, she didn't trust Catherine and never had. The woman was too close with Grissom. "Did you know that I overheard you pumping Grissom for information about me last night?" At Catherine's look of surprise, she smiled grimly. "Didn't think so. So tell me, why in God's name would I want to tell you, of all people, anything about me and Grissom?"

"I'm not evil, Sara. I don't know where you got this bad impression of me." She paused, thinking. "Ok, maybe I do. But honestly, I'm not a bad person, I'm not a mean person, and geez, I'm the only other woman in the freaking building – who the hell else are you going to talk to about this shit?"

"Good point. But I'm still not going to tell you what you really want to know. Yes, I left the clothes, I'll give you that. But there's no way I'm discussing how or when I got them with you."

Catherine nodded. "Ok, I'll take what I can get. But seriously, Sara – if you want to talk about any of this I'll listen, and whatever you say will stay with me. Just keep that in mind."

"Yeah. Ok, Cath. I've got stuff to do now." Having said this, she brushed past the shorter woman and escaped the breakroom.

Catherine watched her leave, smiling a little sadly. Yeah, Sara would talk to her eventually . . . in the meantime, she'd give the pair a break and stop pushing. You could learn a lot by just watching – she'd learned that long ago.


	37. Hank the Skank

A/N: I know this story has been operating kinda in a temporal limbo up to now (not associated with any real-time episode plots), but I decided to fit it in now, because I think tonight's episode where Sara found out about Hank dovetails neatly into the fight Sara and Grissom have been having in here. So just work with me.

Chapter 37

Sara checked her watch. 8AM, thank god. She didn't think she could've stood that building one more minute, especially after facing down Hank. Little bastard. She couldn't believe he'd been double-crossing her – and she, the trained investigator, hadn't suspected a thing! She clenched her jaw as she walked out the side door, trying to work out her roiling thoughts. One the one hand, she wanted to kill that little rat, she wanted to tell his girlfriend – hah, girlfriend – what a skank he was . . . on the other hand, she was proud of the way she _hadn't_ killed him. The old Sara would have.

As she slid into the Tahoe next to Catherine, she mentally groaned. The other woman was sure as hell going to question her about all this. Great, first Catherine gets her teeth in the Grissom goings-on, and now she gets the bonus of being around to see Sara's relationship with the EMT tank.

Catherine turned to her. "So . . . got plans?"

Sara fought the urge to snap out a smart retort. Catherine actually looked . . . concerned about her. Like she knew Sara was hurt, and wanted to help. Got plans, hah. A tiny smile made its way onto her face. "Nah."

"Wanna get a beer?"

Sara didn't care. She just wanted to be anywhere but this place with its bad vibes. She shook her head at Catherine. "Just drive."  

Catherine knew how she felt. God, she'd felt like such a fool when she'd found out about Eddie's exploits. She had to give Sara a lot of respect for not knocking Hank out – Sara was good, Hank would have never known what hit him. 

From experience,  she knew that nothing she could say would really make Sara feel any better, but the younger woman needed to go somewhere for a change, stay away from her apartment where, Catherine knew, she'd just go to bed and replay tonight's events in her mind. And that was definitely not what Sara needed right now. She sighed and shifted into drive. She'd take Sara to her house. Lindsey was off to school by now, and she could make Sara a drink or three, and hopefully make her feel a little bit better.

They drove in silence. Catherine wondered if Sara was trying not to cry. She'd cried for weeks after she'd confronted Eddie, but Sara always kept herself under firm control. She wouldn't cry. Pity, Catherine thought – with Sara it was a matter of pride, but when something like this happened, crying, screaming, ranting, and raving could be quite therapeutic. 

Then again, how upset could Sara be? Hank might have been an asshole, but it was definitely Grissom who had Sara's deeper affections. Probably Sara was disappointed in herself for not seeing it, more than she was hurt that Hank wasn't hers anymore.

Sara looked up when she felt the car turn sharply. "Uh, why are we at your house? I thought we were going to get a beer."

"I have beer. I thought you might be more comfortable somewhere that wasn't public."

Sara regarded her coolly. "I'm not going to go hysterical on you, Cath. I'm fine."

"I never thought you were the hysterical type," Catherine agreed. "But hey, I'm operating from experience here – when I found out about Eddie I went on a major drunk. Not that I think you're gonna do that, exactly, but at least this way you can crash here if you _do_ decide to drink yourself senseless."

Sara smiled bitterly. "You know, I just might. At least if I get drunk off my ass I can't drive to his house and rip off his nuts." She hopped out of the passenger seat. "Lead on, den mother."

"Den mother . . . why you . . .!" Catherine grinned. Joking was a good sign. Sara was feeling a double whammy right now, she imagined, with whatever the hell she had going on with Grissom and now this. If she could still joke after all that – yeah, it boded well. She held open the front door and ushered Sara into her kitchen.

"Name your poison. I've got Sam Adams if you really want beer. But if you want something stronger," she opened the door to a high-up cabinet, "I got lots of that too." She noticed that Sara was looking a little uncertain. "Make yourself at home, Sara. Trust me, the house is kid-proofed, you couldn't hurt anything if you wanted."

Sara grinned. "Gotcha." She hopped onto the counter, leaning against a cabinet. "Hmm. Got any red wine? Cheap, preferably. My drinking tastes are, uh . . . earthy. Picked it up in college. Even at Harvard, we still conserved booze money."

Catherine grinned. "Ah, a woman after my own heart." She closed the liquor cabinet and crossed the room to the refrigerator. Pulling out two bottles of Sutter Home, she hoisted them toward Sara. "This should do ya." She set the bottles on the table and grabbed some wine glasses. "On second thought . . . I'm thinking you're going to need tumblers-full, not wimpy wine glassfuls." She shoved the glasses back into the cabinet and pulled out two plastic tumblers.

"Gimme," Sara smiled, jumping off the counter and grabbing a bottle and a cup.

Catherine was pleased. Sara was actually going to let herself unwind. And – though she hated to think such nefarious thoughts – maybe she'd spill the beans about Grissom. "Right behind you, kid," she promised as they wandered into her living room.


	38. I’m fine Just a little…drunk!

Chapter 38

Sara hiccupped. "So you know what happened in there? He didn't even freaking bother to really apologize. He was all, 'oh so you found out about Elaine, sorry,' not looking the least bit sorry that he had fucked it up with me. Bastard," she spat, holding out her cup for another refill of wine.

Noting with amusement that Sara had polished off an entire bottle and was about to start the second, Catherine nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, men are all assholes. They'll get as much as they can then make a hasty exit."

Sara's head jerked emphatically. "Exactly! Even Gr-Grissom, he, um, he's like, 'oh yeah, why don't we spend more time together,' and then starts a fight about – of all the damn things to complain about! – Hank!"

Catherine quirked an eyebrow. "Grissom, huh? Care to share what's up with you two?"

"Why the hell not, you'll fine – find – out anyway." She hiccupped again. "Well you know about the whole charades thing where he ended up sleeping with me." Catherine nodded. "So he wakes up and gets all freaky, like I'm some English lady whose reputation he ruined."

"English lady?" Catherine blinked.

"Yeah, you know, like in all those romance novels. You know, everything always works out perfectly in those. They should be BANNED."

Hooo boy, the girl was trashed. "Ok, I get it. So he acted like he ruined you, then what?"

"Well he was all wanting to make it up to me, so I said his punishment could be to eat my quiche. Which is GOOD," she added indignantly. "So he helped me cook dinner, and then I fell asleep while he took a shower cause he was covered in flour from my hair, and he put me in bed and got in with me . . ." 

Sara continued rambling while Catherine struggled to figure out what she was saying. Her words were starting to slur, and even when Catherine could make out what she said it didn't seem to make a whole lot of sense. Flour in her hair?

". . . and then _I_ had to take a shower to get the whipped cream off, and we went to work, but then he acted like I was some pesky kid hanging around him, so I got mad, and then I found you guys all talking about me and I got even madder."

"Whoa, Sara, take a breath. Refill?" She brandished the bottle and Sara nodded. 

The brunette took a few sips of her newly refilled drink, then took off again. "So I was in Archie's lab, and he must've went and got Grissom . . ."

Catherine sipped at her own wine – only her second cup – and listened as Sara described the events of the past few days in a rather unsteady fashion. Poor Sara . . . Poor Grissom, too! Those two were just going to keep fighting, she mused. Warrick had been right, they saw their own worst traits in each other and hated it. So Grissom was jealous of Hank – well that problem was solved, but she supposed the bad feelings would persist until they talked it out. Sara spent close to ten minutes ranting about his lack of trust in her. Yep, she was a little upset about the whole thing.

Sara was getting a little unsteady. Catherine wondered if she ought to get a trashcan for the girl. "You ok there, babe?"

"Babe . . . baby . . . oh god I called him that," Sara moaned, hugged herself and rocking back and forth.

Catherine had heard about that faux pas from Warrick. Sara must have been mortified, and to embarrass herself over that little prick who wasn't worth it, too! She tried again. "Ok there, slugger?"

Sara nodded forlornly. "Yesh – I mean yes – yeah – I'm, um, I'm fine. Just a little…drunk." A small giggle escaped her throat.

Oh this was just too convenient. She had to do it; Sara would thank her for it later. "Hey Sara – I'll be right back, ok? Don't fall off the couch."

Sara smiled widely at her. "Why would I do that? Falling isn't any fun anyway, like that song says!"

Catherine had no idea what song Sara was talking about. She retreated to the kitchen, trying to decide whether to laugh or be worried. Picking up the phone, she bit her lip. This could cause her a lot of trouble in the long run, but she couldn't help being a meddler and honestly, she thought this would be the kick in the ass Grissom and Sara needed to get back on track. Taking a deep breath, she dialed.


	39. I’m gonna die, just leave me here

Chapter 39

Grissom knocked on Catherine's door twenty minutes later. When she pulled it open, he pushed past her, firing questions. "Is she ok? You didn't explain what was wrong, you just said . . ." His voice trailed off as they reached the living room. There was Sara, stretched out on Catherine's couch, giggling like a maniac. "Sara?"

"Gilllll!" she trilled. "Hey, Cath, another hank!"

Grissom caught Catherine's wince when Sara spoke. "Catherine," he hissed into her ear, "did you get her _drunk_?"

She nodded guiltily. "Yeah, Grissom. But she needed it, let me tell you! After what happened with Hank – oh, you don't know about that, do you. Well I'll just let her tell you herself." She fought back a smile. This was too good!

Anger fell by the wayside as he listened to Catherine's words. Grissom's eyes flashed.  "Hank? What did he do to her? Is she ok? He didn't hurt her?" He crossed to where Sara was laying. "Hey sweetheart, you ok?"

"Hey it's Gil Grissom! The infamous bugman!" Sara started laughing again.

Grissom sighed. This was going to be another interesting day. "Come on, let's get you up and I'll take you home. Can you stand up?"

"Of course!" Sara responded indignantly. "You think I'm uncl – uncut – uncoordinated or somethin'?" She struggled to a sitting position, then promptly keeled over again. "Oops! Guess I _am_ unc – um, that thing you said!" She tried again, still laughing. This time she made it upright and tried to stand.

Grissom thanked the heavens that he had quick reflexes when Sara tried to stand up. Her legs wouldn't hold her, though she didn't seem to notice, and he caught her just before she hit the ground. "Ok guess that's not a good idea. Come on, I'll get you." He leaned down and scooped her up, trying not to grunt as his muscles protested against her dead weight. "Cath – the door?"

"Oh! Yeah!" Catherine scrambled for the door. 

"I can _walk_, Grissom!" Sara's insulted voice floated out from the vicinity of his shoulder. "You didn't give me enough TIME to get straight! Let me up!"

"No way, Sara my dear. I'm sure you can walk, ok? But it makes me feel better to carry you."

"Oh . . . ok." Sara settled down, leaning into his chest.

He gave Catherine a sardonic nod of thanks as she opened his car door. "Come on Sar, we need to get you into the seat here."

"Mmmm ok," she giggled, and settled back against his chest. Grissom sighed, making a mental note to never let Sara get very drunk, and carefully slid her onto the seat. She started to list to the side and he quickly snapped on her seatbelt.

"Ok Sara, we're off." Unsure of where to take her, he decided to swing by his townhouse and grab some clothes, then take her home. No way was he leaving her alone tonight; he'd seen what alcohol could do to people. At the very least she'd need someone to hold her hair back.

Pulling up to his house, he patted Sara's shoulder. She slowly swiveled her head around, regarding him with an owlish gaze. "I'm going to go get some clothes for myself, ok? Stay here, _please_." He had nightmarish images of Sara getting out of the car and wandering away circling inside his head.

"Mmkay, thanks, g'night," she muttered. She had no idea what was going on, and he just hoped she's stay both clueless and where she was.

Grissom packed a small bag in record time,  rushing back to the car. "You ok, sweetie?" He supposed he should be glad Sara was so drunk, because she'd never let him live down calling her "sweetie" every five minutes if she remembered it. 

They were halfway to her apartment when Sara spoke up. "Grissom . . . pull over. Now. Pull over!"

Startled, Grissom steered to the dirt shoulder. As soon as the car stopped, Sara unclipped her seatbelt, opened her door, and tried to jump out, but succeeded only in falling on her face. "Ohh . . . I'm gonna die, just leave me here."

"No can do, Sara," Grissom countered, rounding the front of the car. In a moment of panic, he saw that Sara was clutching her stomach. Alcohol poisoning? Oh god, what were you supposed to do for that? He was going to kill Catherine!

Running, he reached her just as Sara leaned over and threw up almost an entire bottle of wine. He grabbed her around the waist to keep her from falling into her vomit. "It's okay honey, you'll be ok. Come on, get it all out." He gathered her hair back, wishing he had something to hold it with. Sara moaned. "I know, it sucks, but I promise you'll live, Sara." Rubbing her back, Grissom mumbled softly to her as she heaved and cried.

Sara sniffled. "Oh, Grissom . . . your shirt, I got puke all over it, and my nose ran on you, and . . ."

"Shh, Sara, it's ok. Clothes wash. You feeling a little better?" She nodded. "Ok let's get you home." He picked up her limp form, struggling not to panic just because this was Sara. Throwing up was normal, he reminded himself. She would sleep it off once he got her home.

He managed to get her back into the car and handed her a plastic evidence bag. "If you need to throw up again you can use this, ok?"

Sara looked at the bag he held. "That's an ev-evidence bag, Grissom. Misuse of departmental resources!"

"Just take the bag, Sara." Looking chastened, she took it from him.

They made it back to Sara's apartment without having to pull over again. Helping her out of the car, he realized that he just couldn't pick her up again; he'd drop her. "Come on Sara, I'll hold you up but you've got to walk."

"I _told_ you I could walk, Grissom." She stood up on wobbly legs, leaning heavily into him. "Maybe not so good . . . but I can do it with a little practice." This struck her as funny, and she went off into another gale of laughter.

As the reached her door, Grissom leaned her against the wall. "Got your keys, sweetie?" 

Sara nodded weakly and handed the ring to him. "I wanna go sleep, Gil. Bed. Now."

He managed to get the door open. "Ok, ok. Almost there. Come on, just walk a little farther." Half-dragging, half-carrying, he got her into the bedroom, sighing with relief. "Ok, here we are." Laying Sara's limp form on the bed, he wondered for a moment if he shouldn't go into the bathroom to change, but decided that that particular room should be left open for Sara in case she needed to throw up again. Setting his modestly aside, he stripped down to his boxers.

Turning back to her, he froze. Sara was wriggling out of her jeans, and her blouse was already on the floor. He prayed that she wouldn't take off her bra and panties, because he didn't relish trying to explain to her tomorrow how she came to be naked in bed with him. 

Much to his relief, Sara tossed her jeans on the floor and flopped back on the bed.  Exhausted from the worrying and the carrying, Grissom maneuvered her under the covers and joined her there, wrapped around her in what was becoming a familiar position for them.


	40. Who'd date someone else if he had you?

Chapter 40

Sara's eyes popped open at 6:15 and she hit the ground running, making it to the bathroom just in time. Grissom, drawn away from the living room where he had been reading by the sound of her retching, quickly found her on her knees, head hung over the toilet.

Tears were streaming down her face, half caused by her gagging and half by her embarrassment at being seen like this. Sagging limply against Grissom's chest, she groaned. "Why do I always greet the men I date by smelling like vomit? It's not fair!"

Grissom smoothed a hand over her hair and tied it back with an elastic he'd grabbed off her dresser. "What do you mean 'the men you date'? And I'll have you know that I've smelled much worse. Like when you and Nick handled that decomposing lieutenant."

"Oh god, let's not talk about that day," she managed after catching her breath. "That was definitely not one of my shining moments." At Grissom's curious look, she explained. "That was the day I threw up on the drying room floor in front of Nick. And it was the day I met The Prick."

"The prick? Whose, um, prick?"

She snorted. "No one's, Gris. Let's just say it's my new pet name for Hank," she added dryly.

"Hank . . ." Grissom remembered Catherine saying that the man had done something to Sara last night. "What did he do to you? Catherine said you were upset because of him. Do I need to take out a hit on him?" he asked, only half-joking.

"No, no. No hits.  Then you'd be assembling the evidence to put yourself in jail, and that's not good." She sighed and gripped his arm lightly. "Here, help me up so I can brush my teeth and put some clothes on and then I'll tell you about Hank the Skank." She wondered if it was a good sign that she didn't particularly care that Grissom was hugging her and she was in her underwear.

Grissom chuckled. "Skank, huh? Ok, come on, slugger, up we go." He helped her to her feet and steered her to the sink. "You ok with making it back to the bedroom on your own?" Sara, mouth full of toothpaste, only nodded and grunted something that sounded like "yeah."

She was going to feel like shit once her body caught up with her mind, he reflected as he wandered back to the living room. No way was Sara making it into work in the next – he consulted his watch – hour. And he wasn't going to leave Stubborn Sara alone with a brute of a hangover.

Slipping his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed Catherine's home. "Hey Cath, I just wanted to let you know that – oh, uh, yeah. Basically. She's still throwing up, and I don't want to leave her alone. So can you do shift tonight? Great, I owe you one. Bye."

Sara emerged into the living room a few minutes after he hung up, dressed in a pair of boxers shorts – not his, he noted wryly – and her "physicists do it with force" t-shirt. "Cute, Miss Sidle. I do believe you're ready for the runway."

She harrumphed and chucked a pair of socks at his head, which he promptly tossed back at her. Snatching them out of the air one-handed, she cocked her head at him. "Shouldn't we be getting ready for work rather than discussing my lack of a love life?" 

"No work for either of us tonight. You'd never make it through shift, and I don't think my muscles can handle carrying you home again. So talk," he ordered.

He knew that she was feeling truly horrendous when she responded to that with only, "Oh, ok." She eased herself down on the couch next to him, feet curled under her. Sliding her arm through his, she leaned wearily against his shoulder. "Well you know I'd been seeing Hank. And NO, he damn well wasn't my boyfriend. We went out, he tried to get me in bed a couple times, I socked him, and he gave up on that idea. I don't know what you'd call our relationship. I thought he was going out with only me, but that just shows how much I know."

"So anyway," she continued, shaking her head, "last night with the 'kamikaze grandma' case, guess who happened to be having dinner in the restaurant the woman totaled? Yep, everyone's favorite EMT. And guess who he was eating with?"

Grissom cocked an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Oh this is the good part. He was having dinner with his _girlfriend_. The girlfriend he's taking to Tahiti in a few weeks. And they'd been together since before he and I started seeing each other."

"Uh-oh." Grissom tried to sound sympathetic and not like he wanted to do a jig. "So he was cheating on you."

"Well technically, he was cheating on Elaine. The girlfriend. I was 'the other woman.' Let me just tell you what a sour taste THAT leaves in my mouth."

"So you dumped him?"

Sara shrugged. "Not outright. But he knew I knew, and he cornered me in the lab. Said some bullshit about being sorry he hurt me, not looking the least bit apologetic. I told him I was sorry he had too, and that I'd see him around. Trust me, I have no intention of going out with that asshole again."

"What kind of man would date someone else when he had you?" Grissom asked in true puzzlement.

Sara pulled her arm from his and turned to him, eyes mocking.. "Gee, I don't know, Gil. I mean, what kind of idiot would tell me to get a life, then yell at me for getting one and start dating a professional dominatrix? And spending the night at her place? I just have no idea what kind of guy would do that," she told him acerbically.__


	41. I love it when you speak geek to me

Chapter 41

Grissom flinched. "You, uh . . . know about me and Lady Heather?"

"Dammit Grissom, the entire office knows. And probably half the police force. You weren't exactly subtle when you were panting after her. Even Brass noticed! Do you have any idea what it felt like to know you were," she swallowed hard, "sleeping with _that woman_?"

He was speechless. "It's over between me and her, Sara."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? You get to pick a fight about Hank, who I hardly even kissed, and I'm not allowed to be mad that you've been getting it on with 'Lady Heather'?!"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know it, Sara."

"Sure as hell sounds like it to me. I don't have a right to hate her, just because you didn't go to the movies with her? Don't think so." She tossed her head proudly, which turned out to be a bad idea. It made her head spin and the nausea come flooding back. "Ok just never mind," she said quickly. "I'm gonna go, um, take a shower. Leave me alone."

Grissom snorted. "Your face is turning a strange shade of green, Sara. You're not going to make it to the shower."

"Shut up. Just shut up. Now I'm gonna have to take a damn shower, just to prove you wrong."

"Sara . . ." he began, but she was already weaving unsteadily toward the bathroom. The door slammed behind her and he heard her retching again. God this woman was turning his life upside-down. "Sara," he shouted, banging on the door, "let me in. I can hear you throwing up. You're making me really worried, dammit, you have nothing left in your stomach to throw up!" He banged again, harder.

The door swung open. Sara was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathtub. Her head was down, buried in her arms, and she was shaking. He fell to his knees next to her. "Hey," he said, trying to pry her head away from her arms, "come on. Look at me, Sara. Please." He slipped his arm around her shaking shoulders.

She raised her head slowly, watery eyes nearly shut. "Just leave me alone, Grissom. I don't want to fight with you. I don't have the energy for it right now. Just leave me be. The toilet and I will bond some more."

"I don't want to fight with you either, Sara. Can we just set that aside for now? You're the one I care about, worry about, not some woman who makes her living from whipping people, ok?" He tipped her chin up and gently kissed the side of her mouth and Sara smiled weakly at him.

"Ok. Truce, but . . ." her voice cut off as she threw her hand in front of her mouth and dove for the toilet again. 

Grissom steadied her, slipping an arm around her waist. "Sara this really isn't good. You shouldn't be throwing up so much."

Slumping to the side, she gasped out, "Its ok, Gris. Wine makes me puke up my guts. I should have known better last night, but I was really upset. So don't worry, I'm not gonna die on you, though I probably will make you smell pretty nasty."

"I can deal with smelly. I'll help you get in the shower, if you want. You can probably sit on the floor and clean yourself up somewhat."

The thought of a shower was wonderful. Sara could die happy if she could just get under some warm water and wash off this grimy feeling. "Oh god, yes. Please, shower!"

He smiled. "Ok, I'm going to get up and get the water running – don't hit your head when I let go of you, ok?" He stood up slowly, making sure Sara didn't hurt herself, and leaned into the shower, adjusting the water to what he supposed would be a good temperature. "Ok Sara, up we go."

He helped her stand slowly. "Ok," Sara pep-talked herself, "I can do this. I will not fall over. I am not weak just because I'm throwing up." 

"But you _are_ weak because your body is summoning up a physiological response to your ingesting large amounts of a toxin."

Sara laughed. "Oh baby, I love it when you speak geek to me." She started to take off her shirt, then stopped. "Could you, um . . ."

"Oh! Yeah, sorry." Grissom turned around, hoping he wouldn't hear a thud as Sara hit the floor.

It was stupid to have made him turn around, Sara realized a moment later, because he was going to have to help her into the shower anyway, and she wasn't putting on any clothes between now and then. She cursed herself again for drinking all that wine. Drinking always got her into trouble, though it'd never gotten her naked in a bathroom with Grissom before. "Ok, you can turn around now."

Grissom turned and almost tripped over his own feet. Damn but she was beautiful. "Ok." His voice was cracking again and he hated it. "Let's get you in there." He offered her an imperceptibly shaking arm to lean on. She took it and stepped over the edge of the tub, then almost went down as her feet hit the wet shower floor.

"Whoa there!" He grabbed hold of her upper arm to steady her. "You going to be able to do this?"

Sara bit her lip. "I don't know. Help me sit, please? It'll be harder to fall once I'm already on the ground." Grissom did so, getting his right side soaked in the process. The first thing she did was rinse her mouth out thoroughly. "God I hate that taste. Just getting it out of my mouth makes me feel more human."

She grabbed her shampoo off the edge of the tub and began trying to wash her hair. The problem was her muscles were so weak that she could only hold her arms up for a few seconds at a time. "Oh, shit. Damn, damn, damn!" She would have stomped a foot if she could have.

"Ok Sara, we can handle this. Calm down. I can wash your hair for you, I've had practice now." He smiled comfortingly.

Sara was not appeased, it seemed. "Oh just get in the damn shower with me, you know you're going to end up drenched anyway!"

He stared at her. "In . . . the . . . shower? With you?" Gulp. "Are you sure?"

"I know you're not a sex fiend, Grissom. You're not going to take gross advantage of my body, at least right now. So get in, cause I need all the help I can get."

He heaved a breath, heart almost beating out of his chest. Sara was right, it wasn't like he was going to take advantage of her, but his body didn't know that. This was embarrassing. Maybe he could stand her up, and she'd be concentrating so hard on staying up that she wouldn't notice him reacting to her . . . yeah right.

Well, he reminded himself, Sara was smart. She knew her biology, and she would know that he couldn't exactly help it. She'd already anticipated it, which must have been why she made the comment about not taking advantage of her. He slowly peeled off his clothes, folding them neatly in the corner, and pushed back the shower door enough to allow himself in.

"Ok hon, here we go. Can you stand up if you lean against me?" Sara nodded. "Ok good." He helped her up, gritting his teeth as her wet body slid against his, and began soaping her hair gently.

Sara turned carefully in his grasp and slid her arms around him. "Gris, it's ok. Like I said, I trust you. Don't stress about it." She smiled slightly. "I'd kiss you now if I thought my tiptoes could hold me up. Help a sick woman here, huh?"__


	42. What do you mean neither of them is comi

42. "What do you mean neither of them is coming in?"

Grissom looked down at Sara and knew that this shower was not going to be his idea of fun. Yeah, she definitely had that let's-tease-Grissom face on. "Sara, I thought we were trying to get you clean. I can't wash you and kiss you at the same time."

She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "And you'd rather wash me?"

"Tease. You know what I'd rather do with you. But you're sick, and I'm not going to break my promise and take advantage of you." He ended on a squeak as he felt one of her hands slide down to his butt.

Her mouth quirked. "What if I take advantage of you, then? And you know, you never actually promised – I put the words in your mouth." She moved her hand off his behind, though, and settled it in the small of his back, stroking lightly.

"Sara, don't do this to me. I'm trying to be noble, here, and you're ruining it." He took a shaky breath as her free arm slipped around his neck and she kissed his collarbone. "Please . . ." he ground out, no longer sure  whether he was asking her to stop of continue, "Sara, we can't keep doing this. You're killing me."

She continued her explorations. "Well, I'm pretty sure I know a good way to un-kill you, Grissom. Now all I have to do is get you to agree with me." 

Grissom felt her tongue flick out against his shoulder, licking away beads of shower water, and his resistance shattered. Pressing Sara against the wet wall, he began to kiss her in earnest.

_At CSI_

Nick blinked in confusion. "What do you mean neither of them is coming in?"

            Catherine sighed, vowing revenge on Grissom for leaving her holding the bag. "Sara's not feeling well, she thinks she's got the flu," she lied, "and Grissom, well, he's Grissom. He didn't give me a reason, just said he couldn't make it in and could I take over shift. Probably had to go to an emergency roach race or something."

            Nick shrugged, apparently accepting her explanation. "Ok, then. We three are going to be working our butts off tonight to cover for two missing CSIs." A thought appeared to strike him, and he turned to Warrick. "Twenty bucks says he doesn't have a good excuse when he shows up."

            Warrick regarded him coolly. "You really think Grissom is gonna skip out on work just because he doesn't feel like coming in or something? Man, he lives in this lab. I'll take your twenty gladly, cause I _know_ that workaholic wouldn't miss a night unless he had to." He shook hands with Nick. "Though, you know, I'll feel bad taking your money, since it's a sure bet."

            Nick grinned impudently. "No sweat, bro. You-"

He was cut off by Catherine's edgy voice. "Enough, you two. Like you said, Nick, we've got a lot to do tonight to cover for them. So can we stop with the bets for a few minutes and figure out who's going to do what?" She eyed the chastened-looking younger men. "Now, lucky for us we've only got two cases as of now. Warrick, you and I are heading out to a body dump. Nick, you've got a burglary." She handed them the information sheets. "Oh, and Warrick – I'm driving. No way am I letting you move my  Tahoe's perfectly adjusted drivers seat again."

_Sara's apartment_

            Toweling her hair, Sara slanted Grissom a look. "You know, my hangover's almost gone. Mysterious how those things can come and go, eh?" 

Her laughing eyes met Grissom's narrowed ones. "You know, Sara, if I hadn't been watching you throw up all morning, I'd begin to think you faked this hangover. You have that crafty look on your face."

She grinned shamelessly at him. "No, I wasn't faking . . . but I'll keep that in mind for next time. Mental note: throwing up for hours on end gets Grissom into the shower with me," she said, making writing motions with her hands.

"Cute." He reached over and snatched her towel, hiding a smile. "Now – don't you think you should get out of this wet room before your delicate system catches a chill?" He crossed behind her, grabbed his clothes off the floor, and began pushing her gently toward the door. "Gotta get you dressed, you know, so you don't get even sicker." She turned her head and regarded him warily. Grissom sighed. "And so I don't get the shakes again and collapse at your feet, ok?" 

Sara wiggled her eyebrows at his half-naked form as she pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. "You know, I'm actually hungry. Did we have any leftovers from the other night?"

Grissom, buttoning his pants, raised an eyebrow pointedly at her shorts and smiled. "No, but tell you what: I make a mean grilled cheese. How about you get settled on the couch and I'll make you a sandwich."  He opened the refrigerator. "You want tomato on yours?" When Sara nodded, he gave her a soft shove toward the couch and began to gather the ingredients for their sandwiches.


	43. We should go check on Sara

43. "We should go check on Sara"

            Nick looked at his watch. "Wow, shift's over and Grissom still hasn't shown up." He elbowed Warrick in the ribs. "Guess he wasn't just running late and meant to come in, huh?" He grinned when Warrick scowled, sensing the impending loss of his money.

            Nick's smile faded after a moment. "You know, I'm worried about Sara. She never gets sick, and even when she is she usually drags herself into work. Maybe someone should go check on her."

            Catherine's head shot up. "No! I mean, uh, no need. She didn't sound that bad on the phone. Maybe she just decided to go easy on herself for once. I don't think anyone needs to go see her." Disaster was looming, and damned if it wasn't up to her to fix things yet again.

            Warrick shook his head. "No, I think Nick's right. It's not like Sara to even admit that she's sick. She must be feeling like death to have called out of work." He poked Nick in the arm. "How 'bout we stop and get some soup or something. We'll check on her and, if she's been throwing up that much, we'll probably have to force-feed her the soup." Nick nodded and Warrick turned to Catherine. "You in, Cath?"

            Catherine was stuck. If she protested too vehemently, the guys were sure to suspect that she, and thus Sara, was hiding something. But if she let them go, god only knew what they were going to walk in on with Grissom still in Sara's apartment. She had only one choice, it seemed. "Yeah, ok." Maybe she could at least slow them down and get a warning to Grissom. "Let's just, um, call ahead and let her know we're coming. She might be asleep or something."

            Nick frowned. "No, I doubt she's asleep. And if we tell her we're coming she'll just put on a happy face and tell us she's fine and to not bother. Which defeats the purpose of going to check on her to begin with."

            She bit her lip. This was not good, the guys had her trapped. She could only hope that both of their resident geeks would be fully clothed when a car-full of CSIs pulled up at Sara's door. Or maybe, if she got lucky, Grissom or Sara would see them coming and hide him. Trying to speak lightly, she shrugged. "Ok, then. Let's head out. Do you know a place that has good chicken soup, War?"

            Warrick nodded. "Yeah, you two just follow me in your cars. We'll have Sara on her feet in no time."

            "No doubt," Catherine muttered as she climbed into her car.

_Sara's apartment_

            Grissom jumped and almost dropped his sandwich when there was a knock on Sara's door. Laughing, she threw her napkin at him. "If you're going to keep dropping your food like that, you'll need another napkin. And calm down, it's probably Mrs. Williams from across the hall – she knows my car shouldn't be here during the night."

            She stood up and moved to the door, shouting as she walked, "It's ok, Mrs. Williams. I've just got a little bit of the," she swung the door open, ". . . flu." Quickly, she pushed the door partway shut again and, behind her back, began motioning urgently to Grissom. "Oh, hi NICK. And WARRICK. And CATHERINE." She heard his chair topple over as he jumped out of it and headed for the bedroom.

            Nick eyed her curiously. "We, uh, brought you some soup. Can we come in?" Sara looked really jumpy – he was glad they'd decided to come by.

            Shooting a glance over her shoulder, she assured herself that Grissom was hidden. "Yeah, sure." She ushered the trio in. "Soup, huh? Well I can heat it in the . . ." She couldn't take them in the kitchen, she realized - there were two obviously used plates set across from each other on her table! "Oh, uh, my microwave is broken. Can't reheat anything."

            Warrick frowned. "Well it's probably still warm. You know Sara, you really don't look too good. You're paler than usual." He glanced over his shoulder when he heard Catherine make a choking sound, then turned back to Sara. "So why don't we get you a bowl and set you up in the kitchen."

            She tried again. "Oh, I, uh . . . I'm not really hungry right now, come to think of it. My stomach is still twisting and turning." Turning, she tried to lead them toward the living room.

            Nick grabbed her arm gently and said in his stern older-brother voice, "No can do, Sar. We figured you probably wouldn't be feeling too human if you'd been puking all day, and we came prepared to force-feed you the soup. So let's just sit you down, ok?"

            Sara's eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her friends propelled her toward the kitchen. She was screwed. Warrick entered the room in the lead and stopped short, causing the other three to pile into him.

            As they sorted themselves out, Warrick turned to Sara. "Got a guest we should know about?" She could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

            "Oh yeah, uh, my neighbor was over for lunch before."

            "And you didn't clean up after yourselves? Not like you, Sara," Nick pointed out.

            "I'm sick, ok? I'm allowed to act in ways I normally wouldn't. Is that _okay_ with you?" He was taken aback by her tone and looked at his companions for backup. They weren't any help. Catherine was leaning against the wall with her head in her hands and Warrick was settled against the doorjamb with that "I know something you don't know" smirk on his face.

            Nick frowned. "Someone want to tell me what's going on here?" Catherine shook her head. Warrick just smiled wider. Sara fought the urge to hide under the table. 

Nick wasn't stupid. Though his brain had been focused on Sara's being sick and he hadn't caught the clues as fast as Warrick, once his attention was drawn by the looks on their faces, he put the pieces together quickly. "Boyfriend, Sara? You got Hank stashed in your bedroom?"

            That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. Catherine issued another choking sound, and Sara's eyes shot daggers at him. "No, Nick, I do NOT have Hank in my bedroom. Nor do I have him anywhere else. For the last damn time, Hank is not now, nor has be ever BEEN my boyfriend!"

            He gulped. Oops. "Oh. Sorry. So why do you, uh, have two pl-" He stopped short as the realization hit him. "Oh my god, Sara, I'm an asshole." Sara nodded agreeably, but he could sense the verbal beating he was going to take when she got him alone. "We'll just, uh, leave you your soup. There's probably enough for you and Gri- ow!" 

Warrick had his arm in an iron grip. "Let's go, bro. I'm sure Sara wants to go back to sleep . . . or something." He jerked his head meaningfully toward the bedroom door and Nick groaned.

Sara was coldly furious. "Yeah. I think you should leave. And stay gone." She shook her head angrily. "You have no idea how much I want to hit you right now, Nick. Just get out." She pointed a shaking arm toward the door.

Catherine sighed heavily as she passed Sara. "I tried to convince them not to come, Sara, I swear. I'm sorry about this."

Grirssom's voice issued from behind her as he slipped out of the bedroom. "It's alright, Cath. They would have found out eventually." He regarded the younger men calmly. "I expect you two to handle this maturely. There will be no gossip about this scene. In fact, there will be no gossip at all." Nick and Warrick nodded, looking abashed. The three left much more subdued than they had come.


	44. I haven’t been in control for a long tim

44. "I haven't been in control for a long time."

As the door shut behind the other CSIs, Sara let out a low moan. "I can't believe they did this to me. How could they? Stupid damn men!"

"Hey, calm down sweetheart. You knew they would have found out eventually." He hugged her tightly. "Don't worry about it. Nick and Warrick love you, they're not going to start spreading rumors."

Sara shook her head against his chest. "I know they're not going to start rumors. But I just wasn't ready for this. I can't deal with everyone knowing what's going on in my life, when _I_ don't even know what's going on in my life!"

"Is that what you're upset about? That they think we're in a relationship when we're not?" He struggled with his wounded feelings. He had thought they were exactly what the CSIs had seen: two people wrapped up in each other.

"That's not what I mean, exactly. It's just that, well, they all probably left thinking we're getting married or something, and that's just . . . not happening. And they're going to look at me – us – differently because they think that."

"They're not, Sara. Catherine already knows what's going on, and she'll set the guys straight." He sighed and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He set his chin on her shoulder and asked, "Does it really matter, anyway, Sara? Even if they think the wrong thing, we know the truth. We can correct them, or we can just watch and laugh. It doesn't have to be a problem. You're in control, here."

She leaned forward and turned to look at him, shaking her head sadly. "I'm not in control, Grissom. I haven't been in control for a long time."

He blinked and released her. "What do you mean by that?" His voice was cautious; Grissom had a feeling he was going to hear some things he didn't want to hear.

Sara fell back onto the couch and let out a deep breath. "Grissom how long have we worked together here? Three years. For _three years_ I've been . . . watching you. Wanting you. And you've been oblivious. Before that I knew you through the seminar and through the LA office, and I idolized you. You were oblivious then, too. I was never in control of this relationship, Grissom. It was always you with the power.

"I'm still not in control. This . . . thing . . . with you is shaking up my life. I don't own my feelings anymore, you do. I don't own my own privacy, my coworkers do. I can't control everything that's happening to me – I feel like my mind is just tagging along behind reality."

This hadn't been what he was expecting, but it didn't sound any better. "Sara, I don't want to control you. I want you to share yourself with me. And if you don't want to, or can't, then I don't want you to feel trapped with me." This was not supposed to be happening, his mind screamed. "If you can't deal with things right now, maybe you should take some time and try to sort yourself out." He closed his eyes to hide the fear that she would take him up on his offer.

"That's not it, Grissom. It's not that I feel trapped by you. If anything, I feel trapped by myself. I don't know how to explain it, I just know that it's freaking me out."

"Sara, I don't want to hurt you. Being with somebody is supposed to make you happy, not panicked." He sat next to her and laid an ice-cold hand on her arm. "Tell me what you need and I'll try to give it to you. Tell me what you fear and I'll try to protect you from it. Just don't pull away from me." 

He ran a hand roughly through his hair. "You say I control your feelings, Sara. Maybe you should know that as much control over you that you think I have, you have double that power over me. I'm terrified right now that you're going to decide that this relationship is nothing but trouble, and walk away from it. Absolutely petrified. Because you can."

Sara leaned into him, throwing her arms around his neck. "I don't want to leave, Grissom. I don't. I don't even think I can." She dashed a hand across her face, swiping away tears she hoped he couldn't see. "Please don't be scared of me. I . . . you know how emotional I am, you've yelled at me about it enough times. I just need to calm down. I feel like I'm in the middle of a whirlwind right now."

"Do you want me to leave? Let you think?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't know. I want to be alone and think, but being next to you makes me feel happier than anything in my life right now. I'm so damn confused!"

He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "I love being with you too, Sara. I hope you know that. But we're going to need to set aside time for each of us. We're living in each others' pockets as it is, working together and practically living together over the past few days." Sara smiled slightly at the mention of living together, and nuzzled her face into his palm. Grissom felt the ice that had formed over the past few minutes begin to melt from his heart.

"I'm going to go, Sara. You're right, you do need some time. Hell, I need some time. Let's start taking it now, before it becomes a necessary break between rounds of fighting." He kissed the tip of her nose lightly, making her giggle. "Just don't forget about me in the next ten hours or so, okay?"

Sara's features relaxed, no longer a mask of anxiety. She swatted his arm. "Like I could! But, uh, could we make it nine hours? My car's still in the CSI parking lot, so I'm going to need a ride to work."

Grissom ran his hand over her hair one more time. "I think that could be arranged, my dear. Uh," he added, looking around, "where are my shoes?"

Tension broken, the pair scrambled around the apartment, gathering Grissom's belongings. A shoe pulled out from under her bed, one very soggy pair of boxer shorts that had somehow made their way under the bathmat, and his cellular phone, pulled out from between the couch cushions. Ultimately, only one of his socks managed to escape them. "I'll get the little bugger next time I'm over," he grinned on his way toward the door. "Oh, hey Sara?"

She cocked her head to the side. "Yeah?"

"Can I have a goodbye kiss?"

She smiled. Slipping her arms around him, she hugged him hard. "I think that could be arranged, too."


	45. Fluffy returns

45. "We didn't have a fight. We just had 'a talk'."

_Sara's apartment_        

Sara didn't sleep that day. She spent most of it pacing, replaying all her time with Grissom from the past day. Had she said the wrong thing? Was he worried about her? Scared of her? Could she have phrased it differently?

            She lay on the couch for five minutes, couldn't stand the inactivity, and paced the length of her apartment for an hour. She sat with her head in her hands, trying to re-write the script from today. Lay in her bed, hugging the pillow Grissom had slept on.

            In short, she realized, she spent the hours acting like a lovesick heroine in one of those romance novels she'd ranted about. Upon that realization, she switched to banging her forehead into the wall for a few minutes at a time.

            Finally it was almost 5:30. She had held off on showering and dressing because she knew that once she was dressed for work, the real impatience would set in. Finally, at 5:45, she climbed into the shower and, though perfectly steady on her feet, almost fell down again as she was struck by a reverie of being in the same shower only a few hours earlier with Grissom.

_Grissom's townhouse_

            Grissom hardly slept that afternoon. Sara had reassured him, but he was still afraid that she would get into his car and tell him that she couldn't take it. She wouldn't do that to him, would she? No, no, she had said she just needed time.

He paced the house. He took a shower. He cleaned his bedroom in the hopes that Sara might see it again soon. He scrubbed the bathroom, thinking of her clean shower. He even scoured his already-sparkling kitchen with a twisting smile on his face as he remembered all their kitchen moments. He took another shower, forgetting until he was under the spray that he had already taken one. He started cleaning again.

When the entire house was gleaming, he was left standing in the middle of his living room staring at Fluffy. "Now what?" he asked her six calm eyes. "I'm not a worrier, dammit. Except when it comes to Sara, apparently. God this is embarrassing, Fluffy!" The spider only twitched a leg.

He gathered her from her terrarium and flopped down – gently, so as not to startle her - on his leather sofa. "What the hell am I going to do if she tells me it's over? I don't think I can . . ." He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

Fairly bounding out of his chair, which caused Fluffy's hair to stand on end, he flung open the door in excitement before it dawned on him that it couldn't be Sara; she was without a car today. A surprised-looking Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Well that was a more enthusiastic welcome than I was expecting."

"Oh, it's you." He sighed. "I thought it was Sara for a second." He stepped aside so Catherine could come in. 

She carefully sidestepped past the spider. "And good evening to you, Fluffy. You just stay there, and I'll stay here, and we'll be ok." When they reached his kitchen, where Grissom and Catherine always seemed to end up doing their talking, she leaned against a counter. "So why aren't you two lovebirds together? Have another fight?" She was surprised when Grissom flinched. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound harsh . . ."

"No, Cath, we didn't have a fight. We just had 'a talk'."

"Ohhhh, The Talk, huh? Wait, was it the "where are we going with this relationship?" talk, or the "I need time" talk?" She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled slightly at his surprised look. "You're not the first two people to ever have a strained romance, Gil."

He sighed, slumping against the wall. "The second one. She started panicking after you guys left, saying that she wasn't in control of her life anymore."

"And? Did you guys reach a conclusion?"

"Sort of. We – well, I, really – decided that we needed to allow space from each other if we're going to do this. Working together and spending all our free time together is going to get real old real fast if we don't."

"And that's supposed to make her feel more in control?" Catherine shook her head. "That'll make her feel better, but if she feels out of control, it's only a stopgap measure."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know. That's why . . . this." He indicated the clean house with a sweep of his non-spider hand.

"So you clean when stressed, huh? Figures. Cleaning and a bug, yeah you're the Grissom I know and love. So what are you gonna do about it?"

"I don't know, Cath, that's the problem. She told me that I had all the control in the relationship, so I feel like doing _anything_ would be a bad idea. I don't want to make her feel like I'm taking even more control away from her."

"So you're gonna sit back and wait?" she asked in a voice which clearly said that she didn't approve.

"Well what else can I do? I'm so damn nervous about this, Cath. If she leaves I don't know what the hell I'm going to do."

Catherine shook her head and took his arm. "Let's put the spider away and sit down. You need romance lessons, and I can't give them while staring at, um, her." She watched as Grissom put his tarantula away. "Ok, so here's what you're telling me: Sara feels caught up in the events of the past few days. She feels like you have all the power in the relationship, and she feels that you control all her emotions. How'm I doing?"

"You seem to have a better grip on it than I do."

"Not good." She sighed disappointedly. "Well here's my advice: she feels like she's not in control, so let her have control. Have you told her that she can control you too?" He nodded uncertainly. "Let me guess. You said it in the context of emotions, right? You told her she can control your emotions too?"

"How the hell do you know this stuff, Catherine? Why can't I borrow some of your brain?"

She grinned. "You know facts, I know people. And I happen to be female, if you hadn't taken note. It's obvious that I'd have more insight into Sara than you." She stopped, looking thoughtful. "No, I take that back. You know her a hell of a lot better than I do. But I do know how women think in relationships, at least, and Sara's definitely female.

"So anyway. Sara feels out of control, so put her in control. Don't make the choices for a while. Don't make her feel like you're not interested," she clarified, " but let her know that you're going to take a backseat to what she wants for the time being. Just, whatever you do, don't go apathetic. Nothing will piss her off more."

Grissom sighed. "Can you put that into man-ese, Catherine? How am I supposed to let her make all the decisions without making it seem like I'm apathetic?"

Catherine smacked the heel of her hand into her forehead. "THINK, Gil. Use your imagination. I'm not just talking 'what do you want to do tonight,' I mean give her control in other ways too. Make her kiss you first. Make her be the one to throw you up against the wall." As an afterthought, she added, "Yeah, that's one I can picture. Skinny little Sara throwing you up against a wall, with you grinning like an idiot." She couldn't help a laugh escaping at the thought of that.

She consulted her watch. "Uh, Grissom, it's 6 o'clock. Shouldn't you be picking Sara up or something?" She laughed harder as Grissom looked at his watch, horrified. Still laughing, she flipped a hand in his direction and headed for the front door. "I can see myself out, don't you worry. Oh man, Sara throwing you against a wall . . . yeah I'd pay to see that!"

Grissom could only stare after her, openmouthed. And Catherine asked HIM where he got the deep thoughts??


	46. That’s what you get for throwing things

A/N: There are subtle references to other G/S fanfics throughout all of MPL, used with the greatest respect. I hope the authors don't mind (let me know if you do and I'll remove it). Brownie points if anyone can pick them all out, you can e-mail the answers to me at kingraffea@hotmail.com!

46

            Grissom screeched to a halt outside Sara's apartment at exactly 6:38 PM. As he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open and Sara, chewing her lip, appeared in the doorway. There were deep circles under her eyes, and Grissom wondered if she'd gotten even less sleep than he had. 

They stared at each other, both too nervous to speak until finally Sara broke the silence. "Oh for heaven's sake, I feel like we're two junior-high kids on their first date." Grissom managed a small laugh at that, and she held up her finger in a "wait" gesture. "One sec, let me just grab my stuff."

As she disappeared back into her apartment, Grissom was left standing outside, searching his mind furiously for a way to implement Catherine's suggestion. As Sara came toward him and locked her apartment door, the answer hit him. This was the perfect way to show her that she could have control! He waited as they crossed the lawn in front of her complex. As she turned her back to him to go the passenger side of his car, he called, "Oh, hey Sara!"

She turned, but before she could ask what he wanted, something came flying toward her head. Instinctively, she snatched it out of the air. Opening her hand, she discovered that the projectile was Grissom's key ring. "You trying to knock me out or something? Didn't your mama ever tell you not to throw things at people's heads?" Grissom only smiled at her. "Ok, so what's the deal? Is this your revenge for me teasing you earlier? You're going to tease me with your car keys? Cause let me tell you, that leaves something to be desired."

"No tease, Sara." He waved his arm toward the driver's seat. "All yours."

Sara stared at him. "No way." He nodded. "Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You want _me_ to drive _your_ car. Me, the one who you think drives like a maniac."

"Yeah, pretty much. Now get in the car, Sara. I want to take you to get some dinner before shift."

She blinked. "You, Grissom, are a nut." She shook her head at him, but climbed into the driver's seat. "Last chance. You sure you're ok with me driving your Beamer?"

He nodded again and leaned over to turn the key. "You're in the driver's seat, Sara," she told her as the engine turned over. "You'll be fine, just keep your speed somewhere under 100 and I won't scream."

She scowled at him, but the expression on his face told her that he was joking. "Ok, then." She checked the rearview mirror, hid a smile, and floored it down the driveway. Looking over at Grissom's shell-shocked expression, she slowed to a normal speed and smirked at him. "That's what you get for throwing things at me. So where do you want to eat?"

"How about that deli Greg likes? I know you like their vegetarian sandwiches."

Sara nodded. "Works for me. I like that Heidi girl who works the counter. Between her and me, we'll get Greg converted eventually."

Grissom faked a frightened look. "You two will try to suck me in!"

Sara choked on a laugh and shot him a look out of the corner of her eye. "That's not usually an activity for three, Gris."

He snorted. "You and your dirty mind just keep driving."

As she pulled into the deli's parking lot, Sara reached over and squeezed his hand. "Thanks for letting me drive. I know it must have been a terrifying experience for you." She grinned. "Next time I won't go so easy on you."

Flicking a finger over her hand, Grissom grinned shamelessly. "Who said anything about me liking things easy?"

She pulled her hand away, laughing. "Save it for later, Romeo. First things first, let's feed me." 

They entered the deli laughing. "You sure you don't want to try the veggie combo, Grissom? It's good!"

"Hey, for you I'll even eat vegetables." He nodded to the clerk behind the counter. "Two, uh . . . veggie combos." They took their sandwiches and sat down, chewing in silence for a few minutes.

Grissom didn't want to ask. He really didn't want to, but he needed to know. "So . . . did you reach any conclusions about us today?"

Sara stopped chewing. Swallowing a bite of her sandwich very deliberately, she frowned. "Well, no. Not really. I mean, I'm calmer, but I still don't know what to do about us." She saw that Grissom had blanched. "No! I don't mean like that. I mean I don't have any better ideas about how to balance 'Grissom' with 'everything else'."

Grissom let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "We can work on that. We have two very good brains. Between the two of us, we ought to be able to figure something out." He sighed with relief, able to eat again. "Just as long as you're not going to give up on this, Sara, we can work out anything."

She popped in the last bite of her sandwich, swallowed, and giggled lightly. "That was probably the most romance-novel-ish speech I've ever heard you make, Grissom. You sure you haven't been studying?"

"Not from romance novels, I haven't!" He pushed back his chair, laughing. "Ready to go, my long-suffering Victorian heroine?" 


	47. What was that you said about bruises?

"You know, this is just _weird_," Sara commented as she swung the car into a spot near the door of CSI and shifted into park. "Two nights ago, nobody knew about us and we were fighting. Last night, nobody still knew, and I wanted to kill Hank. And now tonight I'm not fighting with anyone _and_ everyone knows about us." She groaned. "I'm feeling that whirlwind coming back."

Grissom eyed her warily. "We are not getting out of this car, Sara, until you get rid of that feeling. Just to remind you, you may not feel like it but you _do_ own your life. If Nick and Warrick start bugging you about something you don't want to talk about, smack them around. Just please, don't come after me at work. I know that sounds bad," he hastily tacked on, "and you can feel free to beat the crap out of me once we get home. But nothing would make things more obvious to troublemakers like Ecklie than a sudden change in our working relationship, and up to now, you've internalized the anger every time I pissed you off. So showing it would be very . . . noteworthy."

She leaned back in her seat and looked at him. "Ok, I see your point. But what about if I make absolutely sure there's no one around to see or hear?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to say firmly, "Not at work, Sara," but his brain managed to run interference just in time. Instead, he smiled slightly at her. "If you're positive there's no one around, well then just make sure the door's locked and you don't leave any bruises on either of us." With that, he undid his seatbelt and climbed out of the car.

Sara gaped at him. "Did you just say that, or am I hallucinating?"

Grissom grinned impertinently. "You seem to have this thing with my car where I have to talk you in and out of it . . . of course I just said it, Sara." He leaned over and tapped playfully on the windshield. "Now move your butt or you're going to make both of us late!"

She growled at him, but got out of the car. Following Grissom toward the entrance doors, Sara very deliberately stepped on the heels of his shoes, one with each step. "Sara," Grissom warned over his shoulder as they passed through the doors. She didn't stop and he tried a firmer tactic. "If you don't stop that, I'm going to . . ."

"Gonna what, buddy? Give me a bad assignment?"

"Exactly, my dear." He smiled and pushed open the door to the breakroom for her, well aware that there were three very interested pairs of eyes watching them. "Or maybe I'll make you work with Nick, and you two can tear each others' hair out."

"Hey!" Sara and Nick protested in unison. Exchanging a comical "jinx" look, they both had to smile. Sara's brow knitted in confusion after a moment, though, as she looked questioningly at Nick, who shrugged innocently. "Why would we do that . . . oh." The smile faded from her face. She pointed a finger at Nick. "I'm still mad at you from this afternoon! Grissom, you wouldn't dare!"

"Try me, Sidle."

Sara knew when she was outgunned. Pursing her lips, she gave Grissom an "I don't care shrug" and poured herself a cup of coffee. Leaning back against the counter and blowing on the hot brew, she contemplated the other four CSIs. No, she wasn't fighting with anyone . . . but she still felt strangely at odds with them. Almost as though she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As she thought about dropping shoes, Sara flashed back to that morning and their search for Grissom's clothes – a train of thought which lead inevitably to the memory of pulling a very wet pair of boxers out from under her shower mat, making her choke on a laugh and inhale the sip of coffee she had just taken. 

Coughing and choking, she leaned over the sink, head down, trying to get her breath back. After a few seconds, someone gave her a mighty slap on the back and she almost went face-first into the dirty dishes filling the sink. She could just imagine the bruise forming between her shoulder blades, but she had to admit that it had restored her breathing to normal again.

She took a few breaths, assuring herself that everything was functioning normally, then whirled to face the room. "Who did that?" she scowled. "Whoever just hit me, thank you . . . and you better get an ice pack for me, cause that one's going to leave a mark!" The tension was broken, though, and they all settled down at the table in a comfortable atmosphere.

Grissom shuffled through the assignment sheets, considering where to put each person. "Catherine, you and Warrick are still working on that body dump from last night, I see?" Catherine nodded. "Ok. You two stick with that, obviously. Nick," he nodded at the younger man, "I want you to take Sara and harass the techs for results from last night's burglary." He paused to remove his glasses. "You three didn't have a lot of luck clearing your cases last night, huh?"

Catherine threw a piece of her bagel at him, which he neatly ducked. "Yeah well maybe if we hadn't been missing two CSIs, we'd have done a little better," she told him sarcastically. "Oh, which reminds me. Nick, Warrick – who won the bet?"

Sara and Grissom both looked curiously at the betting pair. "Umm . . ." Nick mumbled, "We'll tell you later, Cath."

She smirked. "Couldn't decide, huh? Yeah I suppose whether it was a good reason or not depends upon your perception. Personally, I'd say . . ." Her voice was cut off as Warrick placed a hand over her mouth. "Come on, partner," he told her calmly. "We've got work to do. No time to sit around gossiping, you know." Still muttering to her, Warrick dragged a protesting Catherine out of the room.

Sara fixed Nick with a penetrating look. "And what was _that_ all about? What bet?"

Nick gulped and ran a finger under his collar. "Uh, nothing, Sara. Just a stupid bet we had about a case." Sara continued to look at him skeptically. "I'll tell you when you're older, ok Sara?" 

She continued to stare him down. "We were born a month apart, Nick. Try again."

He did. "Ok. How 'bout I'll tell you when you're not holding a mug of hot liquid."

She shrugged. "Fair enough. Let's go, _partner_. We've got some grunt work to do." As she passed Grissom, who was still sitting at the head of the table, she leaned down and whispered in his ear, "What was that you said about bruises?" Relishing his surprised look, she grinned and followed Nick out the door. 


	48. 2 cents and twenty dollars

The second Sara finished her last swallow of coffee, she tapped Nick on the shoulder. Turning over the empty cup, she told him, "No more hot liquid, See? So tell me about the bet . . . now."

Nick groaned. "Oh come on Sara, we have work to do."

She shook her head. "You promised, Nicky."

"It's not like it's anything you'd find funny, anyway!"

". . . which means it _is_ something I'd find annoying," she finished for him. "Now tell, or I'm going to assume it was a bet about me and hit you."

"Well, er, it wasn't really about you. Just a little bit." Sara simply continued to look at him and Nick knew he was caught. "Fine, just keep in mind, it wasn't intended to be about you."

"Spit it out!"

"We just had a little bet about Grissom . . . about whether he had a good reason for missing work last night or not. We didn't know you were the reason!"

Sara raised an eyebrow. "And did I qualify as a good reason, or a bad one?"

"Well that was the problem. We couldn't decide. Because you weren't exactly an emergency, but it wasn't like he was blowing off work for no reason, either."

Trying to stay calm, she took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, how about you let me know when you two decide, ok?"

Nick blinked. "You're not, uh, mad at us?"

Sara smiled serenely. "Why would I be mad at your innocent bet, Nicky?"

She took a step toward the door, which happened to also be a step toward him, and Nick quickly took a step back. Still smiling, she patted his cheek. "I have no reason to be angry," she told him as she headed for the door. Just before she passed through it, she took careful aim and walked right over his feet. "Nope, no reason at all," she said with a wry look at him.

A few hours later Sara leaned against the breakroom wall, telling Catherine, "I just wish every criminal in Las Vegas hadn't decided to take this week off. Nobody would be so interested in my life if there were actually crimes to solve."

Catherine snorted. "You just keep telling yourself that. What did I tell you the other night, Sara? Everyone's fascinated with your life because we didn't know you had one!"

"Like I'm not having enough trouble with everything going on without everyone putting in their 2 cents. And their twenty dollars."

Grinning, Catherine noted, "So you got Nick to tell you about the bet, huh? And he's still alive? Well I've got to say, Grissom's had a calming influence on you."

"'Calming' is NOT how I would classify it. I can't even _tell_ you how much stress I've been under with all this shit going on. I mean, not that he's a _bad _influence, but I wouldn't say he's calmed me down."

"I beg to differ," Catherine shook her head. "So far tonight you've driven here at a speed not exceeding 85, you've refrained from killing Nick over this bet, and you're actually conversing productively with me. I'd say _something _calmed you down!"

Sara shrugged. "Ok, so maybe I'm trying to be a good girl around here lately. But this whole relationship thing . . . anything but calming. I feel like everything is so out of control!"

Catherine smiled. "Yeah I hear you, hon. Love ain't always as grand as we like to think." Tapping a finger against her chin, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "So – what do you think about the bet? Were you a 'good' reason?"

Sara grinned. "Hell yeah! Besides, if I hadn't been throwing up every five minutes he probably would have showed up here. So I think me being hung over counts as a good reason."

"Yeah, that was what I was thinking too. What do you say we go tell the guys who won their bet?"

"Oh yeah! I want to see Warrick's face when he realizes I made Nick tell me about it." She paused. "Oh, by the way, who did win? Was it Nick's or Warrick's money that was on me being a good reason?"

"Warrick's. Yeah," she nodded, "Grissom's other pet stood up for him."

Sara faked an offended look. "His other pet? You mean I'm not the only one? Well I'll just have to have a talk with him, now won't I."__

Catherine snickered. "Yeah, you just show him who's the main pet around here. Now, come on, let's go scare the guys." 


	49. I was asking her why her knees are orang

Grissom entered his office whistling. No fighting CSIs, no frustrating cases – yeah tonight was going well. He checked his watch. 5AM. A few hours more and he could go home with Sara. A smile crept across his face at that thought.

He jumped nearly a foot in the air and dropped the file folder he was carrying when Sara's voice came from the corner. "Nice to see you smiling, Gris, but aren't you going to say hello?" 

Trying to slow his pounding heart, bent to gather the papers that had flown out of his grasp. "Geez, Sara, how many times have I told you not to sneak up on me and my old heart like that?" Picking up the last sheet and sticking it back into the folder, he slapped the pile down on his desk.

"Who's sneaking? I was just standing here." She stepped out of the shadows. "And having a talk with Fluffy." To Grissom's shock, the tarantula was perched on her hand. "I was asking her why her knees are orange, but she didn't seem inclined to answer."

He was speechless. Was this the same Sara who had curled up into the fetal position at them mention of a spider just a few days ago?

Enjoying the look on his face, she asked, "You didn't think I stayed afraid of things once I realize they won't hurt me? Fluffy's just a pussycat." She shrugged. "Besides, I had to occupy myself somehow while I waited for you."

"And why are you waiting for me, then?" He reached out to allow the spider to move onto his own hand.

Still holding Fluffy, Sara quickly pulled her hand away. "Oh, just wanted to have a talk with you about pets."

Pets? Was this some strange way of asking him to buy her a dog or something? "Uh, pets? As in, dogs and cats?"

She smiled and lowered Fluffy back into her tank, closing the lid gently. "Well, no, actually. More like Warricks and Saras."

Grissom blinked. "Excuse me?" 

"Word on the street," she said, coming toward him, "is that I'm not the only teacher's pet on the block." She cocked her head at him. "And you know, I just think that's unfair, since I do more, uh, favors for the teacher than he does."

Watching her advance toward him, he stuttered, "Um. What? Warrick? Favors?"

Sara took his hand gently. "Yeah. Favors. Pets." She smiled dangerously. "I demand fair treatment."

Finally recovering his wits, Grissom took back his hand. "Now wait, Sara. What do you mean, 'teacher's pets'? I treat all my CSIs the same way." She continued stalking him, and Grissom took another step back. "Sara . . ."

She shook her head, finally close enough to reach him. "I guess I might just have to do even more favors for teacher."

"Sara . . ." he tried again, holding out a comforting hand.

She reached out suddenly, pushing him back against the wall with an audible "thump." As she leaned toward him, the predatory look in her eyes caught his attention. "Yeah . . . more favors," she breathed.

Coming down the hall, Catherine heard a thud coming from Grissom's office. Hoping he hadn't tripped over the piles of old journals on the floor, she hurried toward the door. Pushing it open carefully, she stuck her head in and almost fell over in shock. She cleared her throat.

Hearing the noise, Grissom and Sara jumped apart. There was a snap as what must have been Sara's bra strap flew back into place, followed by an outraged "ow!" Sara stood with her hand on her hips, glaring at him. "Don't you know you're not supposed to snap a girl's . . ."

She was interrupted as Grissom leaned toward her and growled, in a voice clearly audible to Catherine, "Didn't I tell you to make sure the door was _locked_?" 

Sara frowned and opened her mouth to make a retort but was cut off by Catherine's bark of laughter. "Damn, Gil, now that's what I call setting a goal and following through!" Still laughing, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a quarter, and flipped it to him. "Told you I'd pay to see that!" She looked at Sara, who had snagged the quarter before Grissom could get to it. "Good for you. Hope you showed him who the real pet is?"

Grinning, Sara nodded. "Yeah, I think he knows who does better favors now."

Utterly flummoxed, Grissom looked from one woman to the other.


	50. You’re still in trouble for snapping my

Chapter 50

Grissom leaned against the doorway of his townhouse, watching Sara walking up the drive toward him. "Good to see you haven't wrapped yourself around a tree yet," he told her by way of greeting.

Reaching the door, Sara poked him in the chest. "And a good morning to you too, Mister Sunshine." Leaning against the other side of the doorway, she mirrored his position. "And I'll have you know I'm a very good driver. I've been driving the way I do for fifteen years I haven't had an accident yet."

"Nothing to say it won't still happen, Sara. You ought to take some care."

Sara pushed off the doorjamb, leaning closer to Grissom. Staring him in the face she said very clearly, "I am a good driver, Grissom. I won't kill myself, I won't kill anyone else. Now, can we go inside? It's getting hot out here."  She flapped the front of her shirt, trying to let some air in.

Grissom stepped back into the house, allowing her to enter. "I'm not belittling your driving skills, Sara. I'm just worried – being a good driver doesn't always mean you can avoid accidents."

"Oh, shut up." Slinging an arm around his neck, she gave him a kiss. "Besides, you don't get to complain today, you're still in trouble for snapping my bra."

Grissom muffled a laugh. "What would you rather have had me do? Keep my hand in your shirt while we conversed with Catherine?" She scowled at him. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry. We'll, uh, put some ice on it or something, how's that?" He couldn't disguise the mirth on his face at the thought of icing down Sara's chest.

Sara harrumphed. "Well you didn't have to yank your hand out like it was going to get bitten. Catherine got a very clear idea of what we were doing, anyway." Sighing, she added, "And you should just _see _my body right now. Between lounging on the hard bathroom floor, banging my elbows on the shower walls," she gave him a dirty look when he stifled a laugh, " – that one was YOUR fault - that slap on the back someone gave me, and your little bra trick, I'm covered with bruises and welts!"

"Poor baby. Well don't worry, I'm here to, uh . . . help."

Sara laughed. "I'll just bet you are. Anyway, I'm going to go put on some shorts, cause these pants are killing me. I suggest you spend the time I'm gone thinking about ways to not add more bruises to my collection." She turned and headed for the bedroom.

"I'd rather not spend all the time thinking of that, thanks all the same. You want some breakfast?" he asked, following her a few feet into the hallway.

Sara's head popped out of the open bedroom doorway. "No, I'm good. Nick bought me a late lunch. Now go entertain yourself," she told him, and shut the door.

When he heard the door open again a few minutes later, Grissom called to her, a little tightly, "Bought you lunch, did he?" Oh for heaven's sake, he told himself, this was Nick they were talking about, not some guy who was going to steal Sara away.

Reappearing in front of him, Sara enjoyed the look on his face as he registered what she was wearing. She'd commandeered another pair of his shorts and an undershirt; the shorts were rolled down at the waistband and the undershirt was knotted at the small of her back, exposing a few inches of skin. "Yeah, bought me lunch. To apologize for yesterday. Something wrong with that?"

He shook his head sheepishly. "No, no, it's just . . ."

"That it makes you jealous?" She grinned. "I'm not dumb, Gil. You have a possessive look in your eyes whenever you come near me lately."

Oops. He had thought he was hiding it well. "Um, well . . . I don't mean to. I mean, obviously you can have lunch with whoever you want to."

"Yep, I can. Besides, he only offered it after I couldn't corner you to eat with. Trust me, Grissom, Nick's not going to be stealing my heart. Well, at least not _that_ way." At his alarmed look, she tried to clarify. "We're the closest in age of anyone at CSI, it's natural that we'd hang out and become  good friends."

"Yeah . . . close in age." Well that was depressing, he mused. Sure, Sara and Nick were only a few weeks apart in age. But Sara and Grissom? A few weeks between their birthdays. . . and fifteen years more.

Her sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. "Stop worrying!" She waved a hand in front of his face, trying to get his eyes to focus on her. "Let's review, here – who have I spent the past week sharing a bed with? Not Nick. Who's the only person in Las Vegas besides my doctor who's seen me in less clothing than this?" She waved a hand at herself, indicating the brief shirt and shorts. "Not Nick. Not Warrick. You."

He sighed. "I know, Sara. I just . . . worry that you might come to your senses and decide I'm too old for you."

"Helloooo," she said indignantly, "how many times have I told you that you're not old? You won't be old until you can't carry my drunk ass home. And by that time, my ass won't be getting drunk very much anyway. Got it?" 

Without waiting for an answer, she gave a satisfied nod and changed topics. "Now, what was that about icing my back? Because just LOOK at this baby!" Pulling up the back of her shirt, Sara revealed a perfect hand-shaped bruise. "I'm going to make everyone compare their hands to it tomorrow so I know who to hit back."

Grissom had to smile at that one. "Wasn't me. But how exactly do you plan to get everyone to compare their hands to it without taking off your shirt for each of them?"

She furrowed her brow. "Hmm, good point. Well I can always get you to take a scaled photo." When he opened his mouth to protest, she grinned. "Just kidding, Grissom. Maybe I'll just make you tell me who it was."

"Catherine," he responded without hesitation.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well," Sara said reflectively, "I've got you well-trained, don't I." Grissom spluttered a response. "Kidding, kidding," she assured him, patting his hand. "Don't give that old heart of yours an attack."

"Sara! You said . . ."

"I know. You're not old. But it's just so easy to push your buttons by making jokes about it!" She shrugged. "Now, that ice pack?" She reached into her bag, pulling out a tattered Stephen King novel. "I brought something to occupy myself while I recuperate."

Grissom laughed. "Recuperate?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen freezer, "You make it sound like you got shot in the back, not smacked." 

"What, do you think this is some angsty piece of fiction or something? This is real life; I don't plan on getting shot anytime soon. Even if it would make you declare your undying love for me," she grinned.


	51. Meow

Chapter 51

When Grissom returned to his living room, he found Sara stretched out facedown on his couch, wearing her shorts but no shirt or bra. "Is this the beginning of a striptease?" he asked in amusement as he tossed the icepack from hand to hand trying to avoid the chill.

"No, it's the beginning of 'I couldn't figure out how to keep my shirt from sliding back down over the bruise so I took it off'. Anyway, you'll need to wrap the icepack in something and my shirt – well, your shirt – will do well." She twisted up to a half-sitting position. "Now, ice, please?"

"Yes dear," he sighed in a henpecked voice. Wrapping the ice as directed, he laid it gently on her back. Lifting her legs up a few inches, he slipped under them, settling himself against the arm of the couch. "So – what book?" Without speaking, she held up the book, cover side toward him. "_Firestarter_? Isn't that one of the ones with that evil government agency?"

Her voice, somewhat muffled, floated back to him. "Yep. I love reading about all those top-secret organizations that exploit children's talents. The Shop versus the CIA, you know?"

"I'd have never pegged you as a conspiracy theorist," he commented, resting a hand on her leg. "But hey, as long as you're entertained."

"Oh come on, Grissom," she teased. "You know how much I like to do my own thing and rebel against authority figures. Like you."

"Like me what? I'm a rebel or I'm an authority figure?"

She thought about that for a second. "Well now that I think about it, both. But I meant the second one. You know, that stern 'I'm the Boss' persona you have at work."

He raised his eyebrows at her back. "So I'm only tough and authoritative at work, huh?" One of the things he loved about being with Sara, he reflected, was the artful way she could back him into a meaningful conversation without either of them realizing it. 

"Well, yeah. You think you're being stern right now? Look at us." She waved her hand over her shoulder, indicating their current positions. "I definitely don't hear a lecture about chasing rabbits or anything." Shaking her head, she added, "Sorry Gris, but your secret's out. Just like Fluffy, you're a big pussycat once I get you alone."

"Meow."

Her shoulders started to shake with what he assumed was laughter. "Too bad I'm allergic to cats," she told him over her shoulder. "Petting them too much makes me break out in welts, you know," she deadpanned, grinning into the pillow she was resting her head on.

"Oh, so is that how this got here?" He reached out and traced the red mark her bra had left on her back. "You allergic to bra-snappings too?"

Heaving a disgusted breath, Sara turned over, holding the ice in place with one hand. "Oh just quit it, smartass. Some of us are trying to read here." Leaning over to give his hair a quick tousle, she said, "Now, shoo! I want to get up to the part where Charlie starts setting controlled fires again before I fall asleep."

Grissom tore his eyes away from her body and snorted. "Right, you falling asleep with something not done. Like that's gonna happen . . . oof!" he exclaimed as the icepack hit him squarely in the chest.

"Yeah, so I hear. If you need someone to stay up for three days straight, I'm your girl, right?"

He placed the ice back where it belonged and tried to look stern. "You've been talking to Warrick."

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you work with someone. You start talking. Besides, I'm not really insulted." She sighed. "Well ok, I am a little bit, but that's over and done with. Besides, I've just lately discovered a new way to cure my insomnia." She gave him a leer.

Rubbing his chest where the icepack had hit its mark, he grinned. "Yeah, I just bet you did." He slid out from under her and stood up, yet again trying to keep his eyes on her face. "But that remedy'll have to wait, 'cause I'm going to go read the paper. Call me if you need anything for your poor, mutilated back." Giving her butt a playful pat, he turned and headed for the kitchen. 

Sara shouted after him, "I said 'damaged,' not 'mutilated'!"


	52. This had never happened before

Chapter 52

Two hours later, Grissom looked up from the stack of newspapers he was plodding through and saw Sara standing in the doorway – fully clothed, to his disappointment. "Done reading?" he asked.

"Yeah, for today. This book is so depressing, I can only take one chunk at a time. If I read any farther tonight you'll be putting teabags on my eyes instead of ice on my back."

Grissom had no idea what teabags were supposed to do to one's eyes, but he nodded as though he understood. "Speaking of which, how's the back?"

She shrugged. "Still bright purple, but thankfully more numb than it was when I got here. What about you? Anything good happening in the news today?"

He shook his head. "War, economic recession . . . We should just be thankful that no matter what happens to the economy, people keep killing and robbing each other. Well, thankful in a twisted sort of way."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Riiight . . . I'll keep that happy thought in mind. Well anyway, I came in here to let you know that I'm gonna go to bed in a few minutes."

"You? Going to bed before me? What's wrong with this picture?"

She shook her head, "Dunno. I'm just tired, is all. Remember that recovering from a hangover plays hell with the human body. Let me just tell you, my abs are killing me." She grinned. "Or, as you would say, my abdominal musculature is weakened by the repeated spasming caused by ingestion of large amounts of a toxic depressant." 

He laughed. "You're learning. Pretty soon I'll have you talking like me and intimidating everyone around you."

"Like I don't intimidate everyone now?"

"Hmm, good point. But this way you can intimidate people with your intellectual speech and not your ability to beat them into the ground."

Sara giggled. "But it's so much fun to be able to beat up guys who think they're tough! Nick still thinks he could take me if we actually had a wrestling match."

"Aw Sara, leave the poor guy alone. He needs to recover from the last time you smacked him around!"

"I didn't smack, I punched. His arm. Not exactly a death blow." She shrugged a careless shoulder. "He'll survive, though I don't know about his ego. Now, can we go to sleep?"

Grissom shook his head. "You go ahead. I'm going to finish reading these, I'll be in in a few minutes." Sara nodded and headed for the bedroom, wiping a fist at her eyes like a sleepy child.

He finished the last paper ten minutes later. No news that hadn't been in the other four papers he'd read today. Tucking the pile neatly into his recycling bin, he smiled. Sara was in his bed, comfortable and asleep. A warm body for him to hold – but then, Sara's body wasn't just any body. Oh, she was beautiful, absolutely, but somehow she managed to be more than the sum of her parts. Yes, she was willowy and yes, her dark hair perfectly complimented her pale skin. And, well, all her body parts were put together very nicely indeed. But it wasn't the thought of a willowy brunette sharing his bed that made him want to click his heels; it was the knowledge that the woman in his bed was the only woman he'd ever been comfortable sharing a bed with.

Grissom hadn't had many relationships that progressed to the bedroom; Catherine had been right when she said that in fifteen years there had been only three women who could have been considered his 'girlfriend.' He hadn't slept with Terri; she'd broken it off long before things would have progressed to that point. But Heather? He didn't even want to think of that night, now that he knew how hurt Sara had been by it. But the truth was that yes, he'd spent the day in her house of horrors. In bed with her. Listening to the screams of her patrons all the while. 

He liked Heather, he honestly did. She was an intelligent woman who'd found a niche market and made a very good living in it. But she wasn't for him, and he was pretty sure both of them had realized it when he hadn't been able to trust her the next day. Actually, he knew that he had realized it earlier than that – he'd realized it when he lay in her bed fighting the urge to run away from what he'd done, to curl up as close to the edge of the bed as possible, to cover his ears to block out the sounds.

And now there was Sara. More determined than Terri, more innocent than Heather. Sara still had the youthful sheen of idealism in her eyes, and he suspected that she would never lose it. Sara, who wouldn't stop until everything in her world was perfect. Until she was perfect. Who would cry in his arms when she hit a wall that she couldn't break through. Who had made friends with his pet tarantula – he smiled slightly at that memory. Sara, who was asleep in his bed right now, no doubt curled into a ball wearing his clothes, as she usually was lately.

And he wanted to be in the bed with her. That had never happened before. The women he spent time with had always needed him much more than he needed them. He enjoyed their company, yes, but most of the time he simply wanted his personal space back. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, alone, without someone hogging the blankets. Read his journals without someone hanging over his shoulder, asking him what an "ALS" was.  Unwind after work in his own slow way and not have to entertain someone who hadn't spent the night trying to help dead children and beaten wives.

Sara did none of this. She was as independent as he, she could discuss things like abdominal musculature without having to ask him what the big words meant, and she could comfort him from across the room after a hard night, just by looking at him with empathetic eyes. And he loved her for it, more than he could have believed.

As he entered his bedroom, he couldn't help but watch her. Her face was relaxed, as it had been the last time he watched her sleep. A naked shoulder peeked out from under the covers, with just the edge of the ugly bruise on her back showing. He didn't like to think of Sara being hurt, even in such a slight way

He shook himself from his reverie and undressed, never taking his eyes off of her. He wanted to see this every day – wanted to see her every day. Slipping under the covers, he wrapped an arm around her waist and hugged her to him. Sara turned over, eyes still closed, and muttered something that sounded like, "Hi, Grissom." She was probably still asleep, but he couldn't help responding. "Hi," he whispered back. Her mouth curved into a gentle smile, but she still didn't wake up. "Sara," he said quietly, stroking a hand up and down her back, "stay here. Live with me." He felt the gooseflesh rise on her body even before she opened her beautiful eyes and stared at him.


	53. What are you afraid of, Sara?

Chapter 53

Sara could only look at him, speechless, for a few seconds. "Here? Live with you?" She knew she sounded like an idiot, repeating what he had just said, but she was having trouble assimilating it. She hoped she hadn't just woken from a vivid dream about him asking her to live with him, and then said that out loud.

Grissom's mouth twitched. "Yes, here. With me." He took a breath and started his argument. "We spend almost all our time together anyway, and it just, well, it just seems easier to not have one of us carting an overnight bag around every day."

Sara opened her mouth to speak, but he rushed ahead. "I mean, I know that you probably don't like the idea, and I don't want you to think I'm giving you orders or anything, I just thought that maybe it'd be easier for you . . . but I'd understand if you didn't want to give up your apartment, or . . ."

Sara put her hand over his mouth. "Shut up and let me think." She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. Living with Grissom . . . it wasn't an unpleasant idea, not at all, but Sara was afraid. That was what it came down to: fear. The what-ifs. What if she gave up her apartment, and then they stopped seeing each other? What if they started living together and discovered that they couldn't stand each other's habits? What if Grissom got tired of her? "I, um . . . I don't know, Gris. What if things don't work out? I mean, sharing a house is a huge commitment."

"I would never kick you out, Sara, if that's what you're afraid of. Even if we were to stop seeing each other outside of work," how was that for euphemism, he thought, "I wouldn't leave you homeless." She didn't look comforted. Was it just him who was this emotionally involved? Did she feel like he was pushing her for more than she could give? He struggled not to show his embarrassment as the thoughts flew through his mind. "Sara . . . you don't have to give me an answer. It was just a thought, I mean, a suggestion, but you have no obligation to even tell me yes or no."

"That's not it. Don't think I'm offended or anything, Gil. I'm just . . . thinking. I don't know what to tell you. I want to give it a try, but honestly, I'm just so scared." She shook her head. "I just don't know."

He laid a tentative hand on her arm. "What are you afraid of, Sara? You know I love you; I wouldn't ever hurt you. For heaven's sake, if we broke up, I'd be the one to move out if it made you feel better."

Removing her arm from his grasp, Sara sighed. "No, I wouldn't want that. And no, I actually didn't know that you love me. You never said it before. I just, I don't know, I wish life came with a rewind button so that if it didn't work out, we could go back to before I moved in."

"Life doesn't work like that, Sara, and you know it. Sometimes there's a risk to just living, and sometimes there a risk you need to be willing to take in order to move your life forward. I'm willing to take it, and I can't think of anything that would make me happier than having you be willing to take it with me." He wrapped his arms around her, trying to hide his desperation. "Please Sara, trust me. Try this. Don't give up your apartment yet if you don't want to; we can do a trial run. Then if it doesn't work, you can have your own home to go back to."

She stared at him. Why hadn't she thought of that? Such a simple solution to such a difficult problem. "Trial run . . . yeah.'" She nodded definitively. "Let's do that. Will you help me bring some of my stuff over here tomorrow?"

"Of course. Your wish is my command!" he said with an attempt at a dramatic bow.

Sara laughed and threw her arms around him. "What the hell would I be doing now if you weren't around to drag me out of me little hole in the wall, kicking and screaming, every now and then?"

"Probably enjoying your snug little hiding place," he responded.

"Well, yeah." She gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "And that's why I'm so glad you _are _around. Someone's got to talk me into taking the risks." She couldn't hide the yawn that split her face. "Hmm, tired . . . can I go back to sleep now?"

He laughed. "Sure. I knew my sneaky trick of waking you up to make you give me an answer would work," he said with a smirk.

"Mmmm," was all Sara said as she buried her head in the pillow. She curled back against him, sighing with pleasure at the comforting feel of having Grissom next to her.


	54. Female shower time

Sara shot straight up in bed when the alarm clock went off at 6:30. Grissom, awakened not by the alarm but by her sudden movement, nearly bounced out of the bed in surprise. "Jesus!" Sara exclaimed, putting a hand to her chest. "Is it really necessary to have such a loud alarm clock, Grissom?"

He shrugged. "Only thing that'll wake me up. And you're a heavy sleeper too, I'm surprised it scared you." Swallowing a laugh at her outraged expression, he slid out of the bed and headed for the bathroom, rubbing at his hair.

"Hey!" Sara called. "What are you doing?"

"Taking a shower," he said patiently. "I do it most mornings."

"Well aren't you going to let me go first?"

"Uh, I wasn't planning on it. Do you need to go first?"

Sara scowled. "Hair? Makeup? Do you know how much time it takes to blow-dry this," she grabbed a hunk of her hair, "straight?"

Grissom sighed. "Welcome to living with a woman, Gil," he told himself. "And she's low-maintenance as women go." Out loud, he told Sara, "Ok, go ahead then. I'll make us some breakfast while you're in there. Any preferences?" He caught a glimpse of her head shaking "no" as she shut the bathroom door.

An hour later, Grissom abandoned his cooking to the trash can and banged on the bathroom door. "Sara! It's seven-thirty, dammit, we have to be at work in half an hour! Are you done yet?" He heard her muttering curses inside the bathroom.

Shortly thereafter, the door slammed open, revealing a still-wet Sara garbed in a towel. "This is your fault!" she growled. "If your shower wasn't so damn nice I wouldn't have spent so much time in there!"

Grissom didn't bother to try to answer that. Instead, hhe took the opportunity to jump into the bathroom and take the fastest shower he could. Exiting the room ten minutes later, fully dressed, he saw that Sara was still in her towel, struggling with her hair. "Sara, we don't have time for this. Run a brush through your hair and put on some clothes, we're going to be late as it is!" Her hairbrush came flying toward him, knocking him in the shoulder.

"There, now you'll have a matching bruise. Dammit, I'm moving as fast as I can! My hair is going to be a disaster area!" 

Grissom shook his head in amazement. " I never realized that you put so much effort into your appearance." The second it was out of his mouth, he knew he was in trouble.

"What the hell? First Catherine, then you? Does everyone think I'm an ugly duckling or something?" She narrowed her eyes. "If I had another hairbrush handy, you'd be wearing it." Turning her back on him, she reached for her clothes and donned them in record time. "I suppose there's no time for makeup, either."

"Not unless you can put it on in the car while I drive."

She shook her head. "Not a good idea, I'll put my eye out. Shit!" Checking her watch she cursed again. "Ok, we have 8 minutes to get to work." Raising her eyebrows, she smiled. "Better let me drive."

Sara and Grissom pulled up to CSI at 7:59 with a squeal of tires. Grissom pried his whitened fingers from the door handle and shakily climbed out of the passenger seat, staying a safe distance from Sara, who was not in a better mood than she had been ten minutes earlier. She was cursing a blue streak and trying to drag a brush through her drying hair.

When they entered the break room two minutes later, Catherine took one look at her and ordered, "Locker room. Now." She swept out of the room, followed by a meek-looking Sara. 

As the women left the room, Warrick and Nick turned in unison and looked at Grissom, who shrugged and muttered, "Female shower time." Both men nodded knowingly. "Yeah," said Nick in a sympathetic tone, "you gotta allow at least an hour extra for them to do themselves up."

"Wish someone would have told me that before I set my alarm for 6:30!" Grissom responded. "Well at least Cath will fix her up."

Warrick grinned. "Got news for you, boss – that curly hair ain't going nowhere 'til she takes another shower. Cath's just doing damage control." He grinned at Nick as their supervisor shook his head in disgust. "You'll get used to it. Even female CSIs put on . . ." He stopped. "Um, well, even Sara wears makeup and stuff. And she straightens her hair. You gotta learn to expect it."

Catherine and Sara returned to the meeting ten minutes later. Sara's hair was pulled back into a tight bun and it looked as though Catherine had donated a little bit of blush to the cause. Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Sara shot Grissom a look that clearly said, "We're going to talk about this later," and made a beeline for the coffeepot. After pouring herself a large mug full of the black sludge and downing half of it, she began to feel more human. "Ok, so," she said, turning to the three wary men and one amused woman, "what's on the table for tonight?"


	55. This is not a threat

Grissom couldn't resist placing Sara with him for the night's cases. As he started the Tahoe to take them to an assault and battery at a bar, he caught a glimpse of her face out of the corner of his eye. Was she feeling more human now? "Ok," he finally said in a neutral voice, "what time do you think we should set the alarm for tomorrow? I hadn't taken into account the extra time needed for two people to get ready, instead of one."

Sara shrugged. "Yeah, um, sorry about that. There wasn't any reason for me to lose my temper. So why don't we try for 5:30 tomorrow." Laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, she added, "My brush didn't actually leave a mark, did it?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'm tougher than that. Manly man, you know."

Sara snorted in response. "Whatever you say, Gris. So . . . are we there yet?"

Grissom nodded and pointed out Sara's window. "That bar over there." He parked in the small section of lot that the police had cordoned off for investigators' use.

"Hank."

Grissom blinked at her. "What?" Sara's face had gone a shade lighter.

"The EMT over there, helping the vic – that's Hank." She sighed, steeling herself for the meeting. "Well, can't do anything about it now. He won't bother me, he knows better."

Hank may not bother Sara, Grissom thought, but his presence was already galling the older man. Sara was right, though – there was nothing they could do about it now that they were here. "Ok. Well, um, let's start with perimeter. Take that side of the lot," he said, pointing to the side opposite to where Hank and the victim sat, "and I'll get this one." Sara nodded briskly and stepped out of the SUV, striding toward her end of the lot.

Grissom looked over his shoulder a few times, keeping a suspicious eye on the EMT, but he soon became absorbed in scouring the asphalt and forgot that there was anyone else within a mile of him.

"No." Sara's firm voice floated back to him and he looked up in confusion. He didn't like that he saw: Sara, just standing up from a crouch over an evidence marker, was frowning at Hank, who was holding a hand out to her.

Grissom carefully returned the camera he had been about to use to his side and began to walk toward the pair, who appeared to be deep in conversation. "Oh come on, Sara," Hank was saying in a wheedling voice, "it wasn't 'cheating.' No one ever said I was exclusive with you _or_ Elaine!"

"Elaine did," Sara retorted. "Why are you telling me this, Hank? We already had this conversation. It's over."

"Sara," he said, almost whining, "I care about you. I don't want to lose you!"

Sara couldn't believe this. "You lost me a long time ago, Hank." She shook her head, disgusted. "I don't need or want you to care for me. I prefer to get my caring from people who are honest with me."

Hank's handsome face collapsed into a dark scowl. "Oh, I get it now. Sounds to me like I wasn't the only one cheating," he said nastily.

Grissom struggled to not bite out a retort to the man. Sara could handle this, he reminded himself.

"Don't try to drag me down to your level, Hank," Sara told him calmly. "I won't ever sink that low." She met Grissom's eyes over Hank's shoulder and smiled slightly. Hank, seeing this, spun around and fixed his bitter gaze on Grissom.

"So that's it," he hissed. "You sleep with the guy who can give you a promotion."

Sara's temper had lasted an impressively long time, but her patience was well and truly gone. "You jerk," she told him, trying not to shout. "You come running to try to get me back as soon as Elaine dumps your sorry ass, and you're calling _me_ the slut?" She planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back. "Stay away from me," she ordered icily.

"Bitch," he snapped back.

"Enough!" Grissom announced firmly, stepping between them. "Sara, please get back to work." His eyes pleaded with her to stay calm and she nodded jerkily, turning away from the two men. "You," Grissom continued, turning to Hank, "will come speak to me. Now," he barked when the paramedic would have protested.

Hank scowled, but followed him to the edge of the lot. "Sit," Grissom told him. He didn't move. "I said SIT!" Trying to look nonchalant, Hank sat.

"In case you'd forgotten, you are here in a professional capacity," Grissom informed him. "You will not harass my CSIs. From what I understand, Sara does not want to see you again; you will respect that and you will respect her."

"Respect?" Hank laughed bitterly. "She's a bitch on wheels. Hates men." Caught up in his anger, he missed the hardening of Grissom's face.

"I said," Grissom ground out, taking a good grip on Hank's jacket and hauling him up, "that you will show Sara respect."

"You're threatening me."

"This is not a threat. It's an assurance. If you bother Sara again, she'll have charges slapped on you so fast it'll make your head spin. Then," he added, nodding grimly, "not only will you have a sexual harassment charge on your record, but you'll be out of a job. I will see to that, I promise you."

"Sexual harassment? Sara? Hah," Hank spat with a last show of bravado.

"Yes, sexual harassment. It's a serious charge, I suggest you not laugh it off." Grissom was thoroughly disgusted with this man. "Now," he said coolly, releasing his grip on Hank's jacket, "go take care of your patient. And I'll tell you one more time: stay away from Sara. Stay away from me. Stay away from any of my CSIs unless it's directly work-related." He turned and walked toward Sara, who was frozen half-bent over toward a piece of evidence, watching him with worried eyes.

"It's fine," he told her, taking her arm in a light grip. "He'll leave you alone from now on or he'll be hearing from me." Grissom smiled with bitter satisfaction at the thought.


	56. Always knew you’d make a good gorilla !

Word of Grissom's heroics spread quickly through the night shift. Nick and Warrick both offered to buy him a beer. Greg made a point of comically backing away when Grissom came near him. Brass slapped him on the back and announced, "Always knew you'd make a good gorilla if you pulled your head out of your ass." Grissom didn't bother asking what a gorilla was; he figured it must have had something to do with the Jersey Mafia that Brass had cut his policing teeth on. Catherine simply smiled approvingly and nodded.

Even Doc Robbins made a jovial comment. "Aha, I thought you had at least a few human bones in that body of yours!" A reserved-looking David, though, said nothing. Grissom wondered if the young coroner still had a crush on Sara.

By the time shift ended, Grissom was thoroughly sick of the CSI grapevine and was beginning to empathize with Sara's reaction a few days ago. "Ready to get out of here?" He addressed his question to her back as she bent over a stereoscope.

"Yeah, just give me one second . . ." Her voice trailed off as she examined whatever was under the 'scope. A few seconds later she straightened up, smiling. "Beer brawl, for sure." Placing her hands in the small of her back and stretching, she nodded to him. "Ok, let's go. You drive, my back is killing me. How the hell am I gonna carry all my stuff to the car, argh!"

Grissom smiled as they walked out the door. "Hey, that's why you have me. My back's just about recovered from carrying you around last time." Sara only sighed, settling herself into the passenger seat, and waved at Grissom to go ahead and drive.

They had just started packing up the necessities of Sara's life when her phone rang. "Hello? Hey Nick!" She paused, a disappointed look on her face. "No, lunch is no good – I'm, uh, packing some of my stuff up. To move. Sort of." She cast a look of exasperation at the phone. "Later. It's kinda . . . complicated to explain. Yeah I guess if you want to." Covering the mouthpiece, she asked Grissom, who was struggling with her full-length mirror "Ok with you if Nick comes over to help?" He nodded and she relayed the message to Nick. 

Nick knocked on her door twenty minutes later. The first words out of his mouth were, "Where are you moving to, Sar?" 

She flushed and shook her head, pulling the door open wider, revealing a sweating Grissom. "She's moving in with me," he told Nick calmly, enjoying the look of astonishment on the younger man's face.

"Like, living with you? Sara's going to move in with you, Grissom?"

Sara smacked him in the back of the head playfully. "Yes, Nicky. Are you getting all this?" She grinned. "Well anyway, for now it's a trial run. We'll make an actual decision some other time." She opened her mouth to continue but was interrupted by the ring of the phone. "Well I'm popular today. Get that, would you Grissom?"

He gave her a dubious look, but picked up the phone. "Hello? Oh geez, it's you, Warrick. Who's left to call?  You don't have Catherine there with you too, do you?" He blinked. "You do? Oh. Well, uh . . . yes this is Sara's phone, Warrick." He held out the phone. "For you, Sara. Obviously."

She glared at him over the tower of her computer, which she was currently trying to get to her car. . "Take a message or something. I'm a little busy here."

"You hear that, Warrick? Yeah, she's trying to prove herself by carrying heavy things. Oh, because she's, uh, moving. Did we forget to tell you that?" 

Warrick apparently relayed the message to Catherine, because Grissom could hear her voice in the background. "Tell him we're coming over! I need to talk to him, and you can help carry."

"Tell Catherine you're welcome to come over, but you've got to supply food. I don't think Sara's eaten all night, and if we're going to be lifting and carrying, we'll be hungry as hell by the time we're done. Ok then, see you in a few. Bye." Hanging up the phone, he cocked an eyebrow at Sara, who stood watching him talk, still holding the computer. "They're on their way over. Want me to get that for you?"

"No, I've got it. And I ate," she informed him. "I had an apple."

Nick and Grissom sighed in unison. "Feed her, Grissom, and I'll get the computer."

When Warrick and Catherine arrived ten minutes later, Grissom and Sara were shouting at each other and Nick was trying to referee. He paused from that job long enough to fling open the door and motion them in, then picked up right where he'd left off. "Whoa, guys! Grissom, does it matter that much if she only ate an apple? She's fine. Sara? Sara! He's just being a mother hen, chill out!"

Catherine sighed and whispered to Warrick, "You know they're going to be like this for the next fifty years. We're gonna have to get earplugs." She shook her head in exasperation and stepped in front of Sara, blocking her from hitting Grissom with the fist she was shaking at him. "Sara, what did Nick just tell you? Chill out! Now, Warrick and I brought Thai, so the apple is a moot point. Can we declare a truce long enough to feed everyone?" Everyone nodded, though some less happily than others. Over Pad Thai a few minutes later, Catherine looked at Grissom. "So I wanted to talk to you."

"I heard. What's up?"

"Rumors, Gil. Rumors."

Grissom blinked. "Rumors? About what?"

"You. And Sara. I heard from David, who said he heard from a paramedic, that 'Sara and Grissom have a thing going on'."

Sara and Grissom looked at each other. "Hank," they both muttered. Sara clarified. "Grissom and I had a run-in with Hank the Skank tonight. He was . . . unpleasant about the whole thing."

Catherine sighed. "Yeah, obviously. He must have been telling everyone he saw, because I heard the same thing from three more people before I got out of the building." She raised her eyebrows at him. "So what are you going to do about this?"

"Why should we have to do anything?"

She made an annoyed noise. "_Because_, Grissom, if more people than just the five of us and Brass know about this, who do you think is going to find out next? Ecklie. And who is he going to run and tell? The sheriff. And then you're going to be up shit creek without a paddle."

Grissom and Sara looked at each other, eyes wide. "Shit," she said. "I hadn't thought of that. What are we going to tell people?"

Catherine shook her head. "'People' are not your problem right now, Sara. Keeping your job is. Mobley's going to be mighty pissed if he hears this third-hand. I suggest you two tell him before anyone else can get to him."


	57. Spiders and cockroaches, computers and c

            Sara frowned as she shut Grissom's front door behind the last of their friends. "What the hell are we gonna do now, Gris?"

            He shrugged. "As far as I can see, we have two choices. First, we can go to the sheriff and complain about the 'vicious, unfounded rumors' being spread about us." He hooked his index fingers in the air, putting quotation marks around "vicious, unfounded rumors." "Or second, we can go to the sheriff and tell him the truth."

            Sara didn't have a thing to say in response to that. "I don't _know_! Damn, have I mentioned lately that I can't handle everyone else knowing about my life before I do?"

            Grissom couldn't hide his grin. "Uh, yeah, I think you did mention that once or twice. In a loud voice." He put an arm around her shoulder, drawing her towards him. "I think – my opinion on this is – that we should tell him the truth. If we go in and lie to him now, we could probably get away with it . . . but then what are we going to do if we get to a point where he has to know the truth?" He didn't want to mention anything resembling the word "marriage" - Sara was skittish enough as it was.

            She shook her head helplessly. "I need to think. I need to go to bed. I'm going to start screaming soon if I don't get down to doing one or both of those things." She punched Grissom in the arm when he put his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut immediately after hearing this. "Not funny, you ass. I'm serious, my mind is a freaking mess right now. I blame you, again!"

            "Hey, I'm always here if you need someone to blame." He released her shoulder and took her hand gently. "But I think you're right, sleep is sounding good right about now. My back doesn't want to know what you have in that computer of yours to make it weigh as much as it does."

She scowled, but didn't hit him again. Instead, she squeezed his hand and smiled crookedly. "Two eighty-gig hard drives and a fluorescent light tube. And 512 megs of RAM, and a G-force video card. And a CD burner, DVD-ROM . . ." 

Grissom tuned her out as she continued to list all the components of her computer. Unlike most relationships, in this one electronics were her thing, not his. But then, he reminded himself, since when had the two of them had a normal relationship? He had spiders and hissing cockroaches, she had computers and conductors. Finally Sara's monologue ended and he took the opportunity to cut in. "So we decided on 5:30, right? It's noon now, that gives us . . . less time to sleep than I want to think about."

As she pulled off her blouse, Sara grinned at him. "Oh you're just a wuss. Real CSIs don't need more than five hours a day." Grissom harrumphed at her, trying to look angry, but within five minutes they were both asleep, both teasing and the sheriff forgotten for the moment.

When the alarm clock went off at 5:30, Grissom woke to find himself alone in the bed. He sat up, confused, and scanned the room for Sara's form. No woman studying on the floor; no sound of the shower running; certainly no warm body next to his in bed. Well, maybe she was making friends with Fluffy again, he decided. Just as he was about to get out of bed to search, she walked into the room fully dressed and coiffed. 

"Hi, sleepyhead," Sara said playfully. "About time you woke up – I've been up for an hour thinking about our problem already."

"And what conclusions have you reached?" he asked, grabbing her arm and pulling her back onto the bed. He dropped kiss after kiss on her face, making her laugh too hard to answer him.

"Uncle! Uncle!" she finally managed to giggle. "I decided that . . . hmm, that's nice . . . decided that we should um . . . mmmm, Grissom! . . . should talk to Mobley before we start work tonight. And tell him the . . . stop that, you're distracting me . . . tell him the truth."

Grissom released her hand, suddenly turning serious. "Are you sure, Sara? We don't have to do this, and I don't want you to think that you have no choice. Nor do I want you to regret your decision once we're actually facing the sheriff."

"No," she said firmly, "I'm sure. Like I said, I spent the last hour trying to work this out, and coming clean is the only solution I can see that isn't going to come back and bite us in the butt in the future."

"Ok, so we'll tell him the truth." He stopped and looked at her. "Um, Sara . . . what, exactly, is the truth?"

She threw a pillow at him. "The TRUTH, Mr. Genius, is that we've been seeing each other – dating, if that sounds better – and that we've recently decided to give living together a try. That's all there is to it."

Grissom shook his head. "Things are never so simple with Brian, Sara. You know I'm not exactly his favorite person."

"Well there's nothing he can do," she snapped. "Departmental policy doesn't expressly forbid coworkers seeing each other. As long as our relationship doesn't lead to 'preferential working conditions,' he can't throw the book at us. No matter how much he might hate you or me," she concluded triumphantly.

"Officially, you're right," Grissom sighed. "But rules can be bent either way. If he wants to get us in trouble, he can do it. I'm sure Ecklie would have no qualms with helping Mobley dredge up some weak misconduct charges."

"No, that's the beauty of it! They won't!"

"Uh, Sara . . .what exactly would make you think that they wouldn't conspire against us?"

"_Because_! Because, my dear Grissom, I have connections. Connections who see things. In point of fact, I have connections who happen to be lab techs who observed some interesting interactions between Mobley and Janet."

Grissom blinked. "Janet? The secretary?"

She grinned. "Yup. Janet, the secretary, who also happens to have a boss named Brian Mobley."

"You, my dear, are amazing! I always knew some good would come of Greg being madly in love with you."

"Actually," she told him teasingly, "that tidbit came from Archie, my white knight in lab coat armor."

He shook his head, laughing. "You have way too many supporters around CSI, Sara. Remind me never to cause trouble with you lest Greg, Archie, or Nick attack me." He noticed that Sara raised an eyebrow. "Ok, ok . . . or Catherine, or Warrick. Or my own damn spider!" He grinned. "Now, can I have one more kiss before I have to get into that cold, lonely shower?"


	58. You’re ambitious, Sara, and Grissom does

Grissom glanced at Sara, who was staring out the car window with calm eyes. How could she be so relaxed when he felt like he was driving to his own execution? It was because she was so confident that her "sources" would protect them, he supposed, but Grissom wasn't nearly so sure. Mobley had it in for him; he'd had it in for Grissom ever since Grissom had investigated the sheriff's pet construction foreman.

"Grissom?" You're about to miss the turn-off for work." Sara's voice shook him from his thoughts and he jerked the wheel sharply to the right, making the turn into the parking lot with tires squealing. "Jesus, Gris, you're starting to drive like me! Only one insane driver per home, please!" She smiled wryly at him and added, "Calm down. We'll be fine. Man," she said, shaking her head with a laugh, "and they say I'm the high-strung one?"

She was thrown against her seatbelt as Grissom stomped on the brake and put the car in park. "Don't be so cocky, Sara. You don't have any idea what's going to happen in there, so I suggest you do a little contingency planning."

Slamming the passenger side door and massaging her squashed chest, she snapped back, "Me? You're telling ME to be less confident? How about YOU try being a little less pessimistic! Now, can we just go in and get this over with?"

Grissom sighed. "Ok Sara, fighting isn't going to help us tonight." He held out a hand for her to shake. "Truce?"

"Truce," she agreed, taking his hand in a businesslike manner. "Ok then. Let's get moving, bugman." Side-by-side, they entered the building.

As they neared Mobley's office, Sara's pace slowed. Grissom quashed the urge to make a smart remark about her confidence deserting her, instead just placing a comforting hand in the small of her back. He subtly pushed her forward, muttering, "Come on Sidle, don't wimp out on me now." Sara shot him a dirty look, but allowed herself to be urged toward the open door of the sheriff's office.

"Gil!" Mobley's voice rang out from inside the room. "Come in here, please. I need to speak to you."

"Funny, Sara and I need to speak with you too."

"Good, good." A small, nasty smile appeared on Mobley's face. "Come in, have a seat." He gestured magnanimously toward the small, uncomfortable chairs across from his desk. 

The two CSIs exchanged a look. "We'd rather stand, Brian," Grissom told him.

"Well, whatever you kids want." The nasty smile was now firmly affixed to his face. "I'll start, ok?" he asked, as though Grissom and Sara had been given a choice. "Certain . . . stories have reached my ears about you," he nodded toward Grissom, "and her," he said, indicating Sara. 

"Really?" Sara asked in a calm voice that defied her racing pulse. "What stories might those be?"

"Well now, Miss Sidle, there are stories – just rumors, I'm sure – floating around the building. These rumors are claiming that there is something between you and Gil, here, other than a supervisor-subordinate relationship."

"Interesting you should bring those rumors up, Brian." Grissom attempted a smile. "That was just what Sara and I wanted to talk to _you_ about."

"Well, then? Tell me."

Grissom continued. "Miss Sidle and I have been seeing each other socially for about a week and are considering a more serious relationship." He cast a subtle "how am I doing?" look at Sara, who nodded imperceptibly. "We also heard about these rumors. The reason they've reached your ears is this: at a crime scene last night, an ex-boyfriend of Sara's began to harass her. She repeatedly asked him to stop, but he refused to leave her alone. I was finally forced to step in and explain to the man – one of the scene paramedics – that sexual harassment is most definitely illegal." 

Regarding Mobley with a level gaze, Sara picked up the story. "Hank must have started those rumors out of pure malice, Sheriff, because Grissom did nothing for me that I haven't seen him do for other CSIs in similar situations."

"So you're telling me that it's just a coincidence that stories about a romantic relationship between you two began to spread at the same time that you actually began a romantic relationship?"

"Essentially, yes," Sara told him. "An unpleasant coincidence, but a coincidence all the same."

"Ok, then, I'll accept that it may be a coincidence. However," he continued when relieved looks crossed the CSIs faces, "I have a number of concerns about the fact that you, Miss Sidle, are in a relationship with your superior."

"Excuse me?"

"It is well known that you're ambitious, Sara, and that Grissom doesn't have many lady friends. The combination of those two facts . . . well, it makes me wonder." The nasty smile was back. Grissom could almost see the pleasure the man was feeling at being able to nail two of his least favorite people to the wall.

Sara crossed her arms and stared at Mobley in disbelief. "Are you saying that you think I'm _sleeping with_ Grissom? Using him? In order to get a _promotion_?"

"Oh, no no, Sara. I'm sure you wouldn't do anything like that, at least consciously. But as I said, you do have ambition, and perhaps that determination is . . . leaking into your personal life." Trying to look less elated than he was, Mobley continued, "And such a situation could cause problems, as I'm sure you both know. Department policy prohibits personal relationships that lead to preferential working conditions, and if your ambition, Sara, were to be playing a part in this . . . well, that would certainly lead to those conditions."

Grissom was in shock. He had expected to be confronted with the rulebook, even put on the block himself, but he had never even considered that Mobley might go for Sara's throat rather than his. The man wasn't even trying to be subtle – he was openly accusing Sara of trying to sleep her way to the top. And she wasn't defending herself; Sara's expression was a mirror of what Grissom imagined his was: utter shock and bewilderment. She was in the hot seat, and he knew that once she got her feet back under her, Sara would flash right past diplomacy and straight into rage.

"Excuse me, Brian?" Grissom interrupted. "I was just wondering – before I forget to ask – how's Janet doing?"

The sheriff, cut off mid-tirade, blanched. "Janet?"

"Yeah, Janet. That pretty little secretary you've been sleep—oops, stupid me, carrying rumors like that around the building." Grissom didn't even attempt to hide his pleasure at seeing Mobley caught. "I'm sure those rumors about your wife walking in on you and Janet . . . nah, those couldn't possibly be true. Or the ones about how you slipped her into that head receptionist position without the usual red tape when Emily left." He smiled cruelly. "How silly of me to believe those rumors, huh?"

Mobley sputtered, a wide-eyed Sara grinned, and Grissom just raised a smug eyebrow at his opponent. "Go on, Brian. You were saying that Sara is using my weak mind and needy body to get herself a promotion?"

"There is . . . there is nothing going on between Janet and me, Gil. I had thought you were above spreading rumors."

"Well, I am. You see, the thing is that the story about you isn't a rumor – it's the truth. A number of personnel around the building have come to me with concerns regarding your treatment of Janet in particular, compared to your treatment of the secretaries as a group," he lied. Time for the clincher. Grissom hadn't felt this much satisfaction in . . . well, in at least a day or two. "Sounds to me like you may be the one being used as a stepping stone to the top, Brian. If I were you I'd watch it – Janet might start trying to take advantage of _your_ weak mind and needy body." He was surprised to see Sara wink at him as he concluded his speech.

"So, Sheriff Mobley," she finished for Grissom, "what were those worries you had about me and Grissom? Did you want to go into more detail about them?"

Mobley knew when he was backed against a wall. "No, Sidle," he growled. "I didn't. I think that you two understand my  . . . concerns." In a last attempt to assert his power, he muttered, "And I'll be keeping my eye on you two. One slip-up and you're out."

"Sure, Sheriff. But you know, I have a weird feeling that if you were to try to fire me or Gil because of our relationship, the whole thing about Janet . . . well that might spin out of your control." She smiled and nodded to him. "Have a nice day, Sheriff." Trying to muffle their laughter until they were out of earshot, Sara and Grissom swept from the office toward the break room.


	59. Somebody's having fun in the break room!

Catherine cocked her head to the side, listening. "Warrick? Do you hear that?"

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. Someone's having a hell of a good time in the break room. Probably Greg dancing with himself again." He shrugged. "Well, we're gonna have to break up his little party. Grissom's gonna be here with assignments any minute."

Catherine was first through the doorway. She stared in fascination at the hysterical pair in front of her and would have walked right into the doorframe if Warrick hadn't put a hand between her and the wood. "What the hell . . ." She blinked. "You guys . . . you ok?" It didn't look like either Sara or Grissom had heard her, so she walked toward them and spoke louder. "Want to share the joke, guys?"

Sara got a handle on her breathing first and, holding her sore-from-laughing stomach, she shook her head and gasped to Catherine, "No joke, Cath." She was hit by a new fit of giggles and collapsed to the floor, leaving two confused CSIs and one still-hysterical supervisor to stare at her.

Grissom held up a hand toward Catherine. He was still hyperventilating, and his speech came out in gasps. "We're . . . fine. Funny . . . talk. With the . . . sheriff."

Catherine and Warrick looked at each other. "When was the last time anyone saw Grissom laugh, War?"

"I don't think I've ever seen the man laugh, and especially not so hard he was crying." He reached down and grabbed Sara's hand, hauling her back up to a standing position. "You ok there?" Still giggling, Sara nodded. Warrick didn't trust Sara's legs yet, though, so walked her over to the couch and sat her down. "Stay there, girl."

Catherine moved toward the sink. "I'm thinking that you two need some paper bags to breathe into, but since we haven't got any, you'll have to settle for glasses of water." She filled two glasses and handed them off to Sara and Grissom, who were both finally starting to regain control.

After a few minutes of sipping water and taking deep breaths, Sara was feeling almost normal. "We talked to Mobley," she explained. "He started accusing me of trying to, uh . . ." Her face turned red and she stopped talking. 

"Sleep your way to the top?" Catherine supplied.

Sara nodded, still flushed. "Um, yeah. So he was doing that, and I was, for once in my life, speechless. Then Grissom comes out with this brilliant speech about Janet – you know about Janet?" Catherine and Warrick both shook their heads. "She's the new head receptionist, and she and Mobley are . . . messing around, having an affair, whatever you want to call it. So anyway, Grissom makes this brilliant speech about how was Janet, and oh, silly Gil for having brought up those rumors." She grinned. "Man, you should have seen the sheriff's face!" 

Catherine and Warrick both started to laugh at the thought, setting off Sara and Grissom's giggles again. At that moment, Nick walked in and stopped short, staring at the scene in front of him. Ever resourceful, instead of stuttering a question, he simply reached over and flicked off the light switch. Four surprised voices chorused, "Hey!" and then there was a "thunk" as Grissom tried to lay his head in his arms but missed, smacking his head into the table.

Nick flicked the lights back on. "Now, kids, suppose we all calm down and let Nick in on the joke?"

Rubbing his forehead and frowning, Grissom repeated the story in a slightly more comprehensible manner, causing all five to start laughing all over again, though in a more restrained manner. "Ok, ok. Let's get to work – can't spend the whole night laughing," Grissom finally announced

"Sure we can!" Catherine told him. "But we'll take pity on you and behave."

Grissom attempted an austere nod. "Thank you, Cath," he smiled. "Now – we've got a relatively light load tonight. Burglary of a room at the Tangiers and an attempted sexual assault out toward the desert. The woman managed to get a whack at the perp and sent him running away with a bloody nose."

"Good for her," Sara and Catherine said together. Sara, continuing, asked, "So who gets what?"

Grissom pondered for a moment. "Does anyone mind if I take Sara with me and do the burglary?" Two winks and a giggle answered his question. "Ooookay, I'll take that as a no. In that case, she and I will take the Tangiers, and I'll need you three to do the attempted assault." The team broke up, grabbing their kits and heading to the cars.

Catherine refused, again, to let Nick or Warrick drive. She considered her perfectly adjusted seat her property and rather than face the wrath of Willows, the two men acquiesced. In response, she fluttered her eyelashes and, with a grin, said in her best southern belle voice, "Why thank you boys. You're so considerate to little old me."

"Stuff it, blondie," Warrick joked, looking for something soft to throw at her. Finding nothing, he said, "Let's change the subject, shall we?" Catherine and Nick, guessing that he had something in mind to talk about, nodded their okay. "Sara and Grissom. Do either of you find it weird? I mean, I'm totally happy for them – we all know they were, like, born to be together, - but I've gotten so used to seeing Grissom ignore Sara, and Sara keep trying to date other guys, that I do a mental double-take every time I think about them now."

"Wait a minute," Nick threw in. "Before we start discussing this, let's all agree that unlike last time, Sara's not going to find out about this conversation?"

"Deal," answered Catherine; Warrick echoed her response.

"Good," Nick continued. "So War, you're saying that you can't get it through your thick head that they're," he paused, trying to think of the right word, "dating?"

"No, no. I'm saying that it just keeps surprising me when I see it, even though mentally I know what's going on."

"I kind of know what he's saying, Nick," added Catherine. "After three years of watching them dance around each other, it's just . . . _weird_ to see the lack of tension between them anymore. Like I'm in an alternate universe or something." She shook her head. "And man, who else is skeeved out at the thought of them in bed?"

"Ewwwww!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. It's a little easier when you don't know one of the people, like when Grissom and that dominatrix . . . ugh, on second thought, let's not talk about her. Well anyway, I almost feel like their mother. This is probably how I'm going to feel when Lindsey gets married, too. Like, 'Good for you, just don't let me know what you're doing'."

Nick nodded.  "Yeah, tell me about it." He shuddered theatrically. "But like you said, I think we're all totally happy for them, but it's going to take a while to get used to it. Have either of you thought about the idea of them getting _married_?"

"A couple times." Catherine put a hand to her forehead as though she had a headache. "And that's an even scarier thought. I think they probably will get to that point eventually, and I'll be happy for them if they do, but I don't think it's going to be any time soon. They're way too happy right now, you know?"

"Well I don't know about you, Nick, but I agree with Cath. I'm just waiting for them to have another blow-up fight. They're overdue." Warrick sighed. "I have a bad feeling that before they get the rings on, there'll be World War III in the Grissom/Sidle household." Nick nodded in agreement.

Catherine put her foot to the brakes. "Ok guys, this has been fun, but judging by that cruiser and the big X on the map Grissom gave us, I'd say this is the scene. Conversation to be continued. Cool?" She was answered by the slamming of two car doors as the men got out.

  



	60. She don't get no respect

Grissom looked steadily at Sara. They were semi-alone, tucked into a niche in the hotel hallway. "So what do you think?

The patented Sidle grin crossed Sara's face. "Manager."

"What? You really think so?"

She nodded. "Um, yeah, Grissom. Did you not catch the fleck of white pain on his cuff? Matches the paint scraped off the door?"

At that moment the hotel's manager, a man with the unfortunate name of Mr. Cuffet, appeared near Grissom's shoulder. "Anything I can do for you folks? You know all the Tangiers staff is here ready to do your bidding so we can get this cleared up!"

Sara managed a smile that was only part smirk. "No, thanks Mr. Cuffet. We have everything we need from the staff for right now.  Would you mind giving your statement to Detective O'Rilley, over there?"

The man nodded unctuously. "Of course, of course. You'll let me know if there's anything – anything! – I can do for you? Have you found anything that will reveal the thief yet?"

Grissom eyed him coolly. "Yes we'll let you know, sir. As for evidence, well, that can't be discussed until the investigation reaches the appropriate stage." Taking the manager's shoulder, he steered the man over to Detective O'Reilly and explained to the detective who he was. Returning to Sara and the niche, he sighed. "He's one of the sneaky ones."

"Yeah, definitely sneaky. He's still watching us, trying to see what we're saying."

"Damn. We can't even go any farther away or else we'll be leaving the scene open." He looked over his shoulder, verifying Sara's comment. After a few seconds, he felt her tap on his shoulder.

Turning around to meet her eyes, he was surprised by what he saw. Sara was grinning widely and signing, ". . . speak another language that he doesn't."

Automatically, he responded in kind. "Another language? You're right, we do.  So," he continued signing, returning her smile, "is he still watching us?"

"Yes. But he looks really confused now. I don't think he knows ASL. All the better for us."

They continued their conversation, Grissom taking delight in the fact that someone else near him knew ASL and Sara trying hard not to grin proudly at her accomplishment, until they had reached a satisfactory conclusion.  In agreement about the manager, they decided to bring him back to CSI and let O'Reilly question him while they processed his clothes and hands.

They arrived back at the building at almost exactly the same time as the Tahoe carrying Catherine, Warrick, and Nick. Sara and Grissom exchanged a worried look when they got out of the car and heard only a mutter from Catherine, followed by a gagging sound from Nick.

Uncharacteristically, Sara smiled at this rather than yelling. She knew just how to annoy these three. "They were talking about us," she signed to Grissom, who at first cast her a look of surprise, then figuring out her strategy, started signing back.

"Of course they were. We're the hot topic of conversation around here."

"You know, I kind of feel like we're using a secret language right now." 

"Well," Grissom told her, "we are. We're . . ."

He was cut off by Catherine's voice almost next to his ear. "Keeping secrets, Gris?"

He tossed one last sign at Sara, who began to laugh, then answered Catherine. "No, just a conversation between two coworkers, Cath. Let's go inside, Sara and I have got a suspect in the burglary we need to process." As Sara walked past him, he whispered in her ear, "Yeah that's definitely a good way to annoy Cath and the boys. We should do it more often."

Sara grinned. "Why Gil Grissom, you're supposed to be the boss around here, not my co-mischief maker," she admonished him, causing Grissom to grab a piece of her hair and tug, muttering, "I think you missed a spot." 

The five CSIs entered the building as a group, laughing and joking, then split up. Sara and Grissom headed for the interview room where O'Reilly was waiting with Mr. Cuffet, while Catherine, Nick, and Warrick headed for the fingerprint lab.

O'Reilly was not in the interrogation room, as it turned out; he had been replaced by Brass, who was wearing his tough-guy face. Noticing Sara's inquiring look, he nodded toward the one-way mirror on the wall, indicating that O'Reilly was in the adjacent room. "Ok, we're all here," he began jovially, "so we can get started. Dan, here – is it ok if I call you Dan?" Without waiting for an answer, Brass pushed ahead. "Well Dan, I - and these colleagues of mine -" he said, indicating the two CSIs with a sweep of his arm, "would like to ask you some questions about what happened tonight."

Cuffet gave Brass a dirty look. "I already told you people everything I know. Ask them," he shot back, not looking at Grissom or Sara as he referred to them.

Sara tried not to laugh – this was always her favorite part. "Actually, Mr. Cuffet, we do have a few more questions for you. And my first question is: would you take off your clothes, please?" The man blinked at her. Of all questions she could ask, he obviously had not been expecting that one. "We need to go over your clothing to see if we can gather any trace evidence."

"No way, lady. I prefer to keep my clothes on, especially around butch chicks like you."

"Hey!" Brass barked. "I don't recall her giving you an option, and I don't take kindly to hearing scum like you insult my friends. Now, Sara's going to leave for a few minutes so Grissom and I can strip you. And you're going to cooperate like a good little boy." The man scowled, but allowed his shirt, pants, and jacket to be removed when Sara was gone.

When the men were done with their suspect, Grissom carefully folded the clothing and carried it toward the trace lab. As he passed Sara, he tossed her a wink and a smile. "Don't let him get to you, hon." Sara smiled back and nodded, then re-entered the interrogation room.

Brass smiled at her, too, when she passed him on her way to her seat at the end of the table. "Ok, then, let's get on with the show, shall we Danny-boy?" Cuffet said nothing. "I'll take that as a yes. Now, Mr. Cuffet, would you mind explaining to us your duties as general manager of the Tangiers?"

"Yes."

"Do it anyway, buddy." Brass didn't need a partner, he switched smoothly from good cop to bad cop by himself. Looking like he'd like to throw his glass of water in the captain's face, Cuffet explained his work. "So," Brass continued when he had finished, "your duties don't bring you in daily contact with the hotel rooms."

There was a pause before Cuffet spoke, as all three people in the room turned to watch Grissom return. Once Grissom had handed Sara a carefully folded, blank sheet of paper, Cuffet continued. "I told you, I supervise the other managers, who supervise their own staff in the hotel."

"Right, you did say that," Sara jumped in. "So given that, would you mind explaining to me why we just found," she paused, studying the blank paper with a serious look on her face, "carpet fibers from the room that was robbed, room 417, on you?"

"I work at the damn hotel, why do you think I have carpet fibers on me?"

"Sure, sure," Sara responded. "Of course. But then . . . why do you have flecks of paint from the door to 417 on your jacket and pants? I mean, I can understand you coming in contact with the carpet fibers, but why would you possibly have paint flecks all over you – paint flecks that match the scratched door, too. Your hotel staff would quickly fix any paint problems, I'd think. There shouldn't be chipped paint lying around."

"Yeah, well, I just had to fire a maintenance worker for slacking off. I probably picked up the chips when I was examining his shabby work."

Sara sighed. Turning to Grissom, she signed, "This guy has an answer for everything."

"Don't worry," Grissom signed back. "You're rattling him. And you're even better than I thought at lying."

She grinned and turned back to their suspect. "You realize we can check the hotel's records, Mr. Cuffet?"

"What do I care? It's gonna be your word against mine, and who do you think they'd believe? The general manager of the hotel who's worked there for 15 years, or some chick who wanted to have a badge 'cause she couldn't have a dick?"

Sara blinked. She couldn't believe the balls this guy had, insulting the hell out of her in front two other men – and neither of them was saying a word! She schooled her features into a look of boredom. "They'd believe me, Mr. Cuffet, because I am the one with the badge and the gun. You, on the other hand, are the one with a toupee and a big gambling debt at the Sahara." She narrowed her eyes. "We're gonna nail you. So just drop the wise-guy act and try telling the truth; maybe you can make a deal." Unable to speak anymore without hitting Cuffet's smarmy face, she turned and walked out of the room.


	61. Angry Sara, not good

Locker room, 3:15 AM

Crunch. "Ow! Shit!" Sara cursed at the pain when her fist connected with the locker room wall, then cursed Grissom and Brass for making her angry enough to punch said wall. She shook her hand in a vain attempt to dispel the pain. Looking at the injured appendage, she realized that her pinkie finger was in a rather . . . unnatural position. Eh, screw it. She'd splint it up when she got a minute.

At the sound of flesh striking something hard, Warrick popped his head around the bank of lockers and sized up the situation. Angry Sara, not good. He ought to make an escape while she still didn't know he was there. Yeah, he decided, that would be the best strategy – but he couldn't leave her with what appeared to be a broken finger.

An Ace bandage came flying over the lockers and hit Sara in the head. She whirled around to catch the person who had thrown it at her, but the locker room was empty. "Whoever you are, this better not get out or you are DEAD!" she yelled in the direction that the bandage had come from. No answer. She stuffed the bandage in her pocket, figuring if the finger actually started to swell, she'd wrap it. Putting it on now would just make people ask her what she had done to her hand. Instead, she ran it under cold water for a few minutes, gritting her teeth as she tried to dry her screaming hand. "Mind over matter, Sara. And besides, you know this is your own fault." She allowed herself a minute or two more to lean against the wall and put herself back together and then headed back to the interrogation. Damned if she'd let Cuffet see that he'd gotten to her.

Interrogation room, 3:15 AM

            Only Brass's firm grip on his arm stopped Grissom from going after the arrogant man sitting across from them. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, shaking off his friend's hand. "Do you think if you're mean enough we'll let you out of here? Not on my watch, bud."

            Brass nodded, adding, "Didn't anyone ever tell you that you're supposed to be _nice_ to the cops who handle you? That way we may put in a good word with the DA." He grinned. "No such luck for you, Cuffet. You, my friend, are under arrest for breaking and entering and theft. And you're gonna get convicted for exactly that."

"What? You can't arrest me, you have no evidence! I didn't do it!" Cuffet jumped up from his seat, pointing an accusing finger at the two men. "This is . . . this is . . . _police brutality_!"

Sara chose that moment to come back into the room and heard only the tail end of his ranting. "I'll show you police brutality, you little worm. Just give me the chance." She raised her chin defiantly, then turned to glare at the other men. "Apparently we're done in here?"

Brass gulped. He'd never had Sara's wrath directed at him before. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, we are. I just need to read him his rights." He did so and made a quick exit from the room, dragging Cuffet behind him.

Sara sat down across from Grissom and regarded him coolly. He ought to be used to it by now, Grissom figured, but every time she gave him that look it still made him want to hide under the table. "Uh . . ."

Sara wasn't in the mood for him stalling. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I, um, well you know, Sara, you can take care of yourself. You've proved that often. So I just figured that, uh, you might not want me or Brass to butt in on something small like Cuffet insulting you."

She was not impressed. "So you decided it'd be a good idea to sit there and just watch as he tried to attack me and my credibility? You thought that was the best choice?" Grissom nodded meekly. "You ass! Yeah, Grissom, I can take care of myself, but it'd be nice to have you stand up for me in front of suspects who throw words like 'butch' and 'some chick' at me." She narrowed her eyes. "Where the hell have you been for the past three years to not know that insulting women – especially me to my face - is the easiest way to piss me off?"

Grissom shook his head. He'd never known that. Bad sign, he supposed. He was living with this woman and didn't know all of her pet peeves yet? "I'm sorry, Sara. I can't always know which times you want me to interfere and which times you don't. I'm sorry. There, I said it again. Am I forgiven?"

Sara sighed. "I'm still pissed, but I mostly forgive you. I'm just angry at that bastard and at the situation. Why the hell didn't Brass say anything?"

"Same reason as me, except he's actually scared of you. I just pretend to be." He offered her an impudent grin. "Besides, these days he defers to me when it comes to you, my dear." Sara's hands were folded carefully together and Grissom reached for one, trying to make some contact to make sure she wasn't still angry. He was surprised when Sara jerked her hands away and put them under the table. "You don't want me to touch you?" Sara said nothing, only continued looking at him with expressionless eyes.

"What, Sara?" He glared back at her. "You're going to have to spill it eventually. What, do you have a broken nail or something?"

"I cannot believe you!" she exploded. "What is it with you? 'Is it the hamburger thing?'" she mimicked, "and now 'do you have a broken nail?' Way to trivialize my problems. Man, sometimes I wonder what I see in you."

"Show me your damn hands, Sara."

Without a word, Sara pulled her hands out of her lap and placed them flat on the table. After a few seconds she put them back under the table. "There. Happy now?"

"You've got a broken pinkie."

"How the hell would you know? You sat in here looking pleased with yourself while I was in the locker room punching things."

He got up and walked over to her, pulling her up to stand in front of him. Taking her hand in a gentle grip, he examined it. "Looks broken to me, even if I wasn't there when you did it." He shook his head angrily. "Do you not care about yourself at all? At least put a splint on it!"

She took back her hand. "Shut up, okay? You don't know shit about me." Grissom gaped, unable to hide the hurt on his face. "Okay, fine, you know me better than the other people at CSI. But you don't act like it most of the time."

"I'm trying, Sara. I really am. You, of all people, should know that I haven't been close to a woman in years . . ." He was cut off as Sara's bad hand closed around his throat – not hard enough to injure him, but hard enough so that he got the point. With her other hand, she fingerspelled "h-e-a-t-h-e-r" and fixed him with an accusing look.

"Yes, Sara, I spent time with Heather, but that means nothing now, and I've told you that a million times."

"Oh for god's sake, let's not start this argument again. You screwed around and I still hate it. We both know that. End of story. My point now is that you don't have a leg to stand on when it comes to not having experience with women."

Grissom was out of explanations. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a quick hug, then dropped a kiss on the top of her head. They fit together perfectly, he thought – she was just the right height for him. "Next time I'll beat him up for you, ok?" He felt her nod against his chest and mumble something resembling "ok."

"Good." He lowered his voice. "Don't ever think I don't love you, Sara . . . even if I act like an ass." He hugged her again, eyes open this time. As he scanned the hallway, his gaze collided with Ecklie's. The man was standing outside the door, watching them.


	62. If Grissom had a killer figure and nice

The little weasel was gone by the time Grissom got out the door of the interrogation room. He looked back at Sara, who was watching him with a "you'd better get yourself under control or you're in deep shit" look on her face. Waving off her concern, he headed for Ecklie's office, but his prey wasn't there. Only one more possible place Ecklie'd run and hide, he figured, but to Grissom's surprise, he hadn't run straight to the sheriff, either. Grissom shrugged. The man would eventually wander into his grasp, and when he did Grissom would nab him.

Still thinking about what he was going to say to the younger man, Grissom headed, by mental default, to the break room. He almost stopped short at the sight of Ecklie in the room, but forced himself to keep walking as if he weren't surprised. "Conrad."

"Gil." 

Good, Grissom thought, Ecklie looked nervous. "So how has your day as a peeping tom gone?" Ecklie's mouth opened, closed, opened, and closed again; he didn't seem to have been anticipating this form of confrontation.

Finally he managed to speak, but rather inanely. "I'm not a peeping tom."

"You don't call standing unnoticed as you watch other people interact the actions of a 'peeping tom'?" Grissom smiled easily. "You were watching me and Sara, Conrad, and I don't appreciate it."

"The city of Las Vegas probably doesn't appreciate two of its CSIs having, uh, personal interactions during work hours."

Grissom's eyes narrowed. "I don't know what you saw, Ecklie, but I was comforting Sara because a suspect had gone after her with personal attacks."

Ecklie didn't back down. "Do you comfort all your CSIs with a kiss?" Before Grissom could answer, Ecklie threw up his hands. "Don't answer that, Gil, because I don't really want to know. Listen, congratulations on whatever it is you have going with Sara. Really," he added at Grissom's disbelieving look. "You know I don't particularly like you, but even I could see that you two have been panting after each other for years, and if nothing else, I'm glad you put such a nice girl out of her misery."

"Are you sure you're Conrad Ecklie? You're not his good twin or something?"

"Don't joke, Gil, because I'm not in the mood for it. Yes, I am congratulating you on this thing, but I don't appreciate your courting being carried out in the middle of the shift in front of the entire building staff. I don't care if you're screwing her brains out after-hours, but – hey Gil, stop that." Grissom was stalking him, and Ecklie was about to be backed into the counter.

"I don't ever want to hear such filth out of you again, Conrad. No one is 'screwing' anyone else, and if I hear rumors to that effect, I will know _exactly _who started them. And you'll regret it."

Ecklie gave up. "Fine, Gil, whatever you say. Just keep it out of the office." Before Grissom could make a retort, he added, "And you know how much it pisses me off to have to congratulate you. So you just consider how pleased I must be to see you two paired up if I actually say 'congratulations' out loud. Now go home and get out of my face, because your shift's over and it's time for ME to be in charge." With that, he made a swift exit, leaving Grissom staring after him in disbelief. 

Sara almost ran into Ecklie as he made his escape from the room. Startled, she jumped back and almost tripped over her own feet. He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling on her butt, but quickly dropped it when she leveled a dark glare at where he was touching her. "Watch it," she snapped.

Ecklie, very aware that Grissom was watching him through the doorway, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry, Sidle. Didn't see you. Oh, by the way . . ." He lowered the volume of his voice, nearly whispering to Sara, "You have your hands full with him. Oh, and Sara?" He raised his voice back to normal. "Good to see you finally snagged him. Enjoy while you can." Having said this, he gave her a stiff sort of nod and headed for the parking lot at a fast clip.

Sara stared after him, head spinning. She furrowed her brow and muttered to herself, "Did he just say what I think he said?" 

She was startled yet again when Grissom spoke almost in her ear. "Yeah, he said it." 

Letting out a small squeak, she spun around to face him. "Don't DO that, Grissom!" She pushed him out of the way and stalked into the break room, snagging the biggest mug she could find and filling it with Greg's special coffee. "I need my fix of this stuff, it'll settle my nerves."

Grissom frowned at her. "First of all, Sara, coffee will make you MORE jittery, not less. And second of all, isn't that Greg's private stash?" Sara only shrugged. Grissom took that as a "no" and began to fix his own mug of the brew.

Suddenly Greg came skidding into the room.  "Guys! Ecklie SMILED at me! What's going on . . . hey!" he cut himself off when he saw Grissom's mug of coffee. "What's with that? Dude, you know that's MY coffee."

"Sara's drinking it, and you don't have a problem with that," Grissom shot back.

"Yeah well, if you were my age, my height, and a girl with a killer figure, you could drink it too."

Sara snorted in a very unladylike manner, then got control of herself. Fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously at the younger man, she grinned. "Why Greg, you flatterer you!" Looking down at herself, she added, "You really think I have a killer figure?"

"Hell yeah," Greg responded, then punctuated this assertion by throwing his arms around her, dipping her, and giving her a smacking kiss on the cheek.

When he set her upright, Sara was laughing so hard she was almost crying. "Greg! You…!" She collapsed in a chair, still laughing, and managed to hiccup out, "God, when was the last time I laughed this much in one night?" Greg tipped an imaginary hat at her, grinning like a maniac.

Grissom watched this all with a scowl.


	63. This isn't working

Sara sighed and leaned her forehead against the car window. "Grissom, it's _Greg_. What harm could he possibly do? You think he's going to steal my heart with his coffee or something?"

"No, Sara, I don't think that he's going to steal your heart with his coffee." Grissom ground his teeth in frustration, knowing Sara didn't understand what was going through his mind. "I'm just telling you, it doesn't exactly make me smile to see you kissing other men in the middle of work."

"Grissom! Jesus, can you get this through your thick head?" She reached over and rapped him on the side of his head with her knuckles. "I was not 'kissing' Greg. You saw the whole thing." Grissom said nothing, so Sara sat back in her seat and crossed her arms in front of her. "This is ridiculous. You're jealous. Of Greg! Greg, the entire team's little brother."

She glared at the side of his head. Grissom still wouldn't even twitch a muscle at her arguments. "Fine, Gris. Think what you want, because I obviously can't change your mind now that you think I'm a lying slut."

That got a rise out of him. Grissom jerked at the word "slut" as though she had hit him. "I did NOT call you a slut, Sidle," he growled. 

"Then what exactly ARE you calling me? You just said that you don't appreciate me making out with other guys in front of you. Helloooo, that sounds to me like you're calling me loose, at the least."

"That's not what . . . oh, forget it. Forget the whole damn thing. Kiss every male who stands still long enough for you to catch him, for all I care."

Sara bit her tongue and clenched her fists to prevent one or the other from lashing out at him. She was getting nowhere; Grissom was determined to see the joking interaction in the break room as her throwing him over for Greg. Nothing she was saying could change his mind. "Well too bad for him," she decided silently. "If he wants to think that, it's his problem, not mine, 'cause I know what went on in there and I KNOW it was perfectly innocent."

As soon as he parked the car in his driveway, Sara jumped out, slamming the door. Did they have to end up fighting every time they got in the car? Maybe it was bad luck. Mentally shrugging, she let herself in the front door, not pausing to hold it for Grissom. She heard him calling her as he entered, but she ignored it, slipping into the bathroom and locking the door.

"Sara. Sara!" Grissom was knocking on the bathroom door. "Open the door, Sara. This is my house, you can't lock me out of my own property." 

He jumped back an inch when Sara jerked the door open furiously. "YOUR house? Oh, that's rich, Mister 'Share my home, live with me'. Sounds to me like the rules are changing here."

"That's not what I meant," he told her wearily.

She tried for an ironic smile to hide the hurt she was feeling, but managed only a grimace. "Yeah, right. Then what did you mean, Gris? Tell me. What did you mean, if not that this was your house and not mine?"

"I don't know what I meant, ok? Just come out of the damn bathroom and let's pretend we're civilized people."

Before he had finished his sentence, the door had again slammed in his face. Sara's voice drifted through it. "Civilization's overrated." Hearing the shower turn on, Grissom retreated to the kitchen to mentally regroup. 

Sara was finally starting to calm down. The hot water of the shower was washing away her tears and relaxing her tense muscles, but she still couldn't avoid the sinking feeling that this was no easily resolved squabble. It had to be fixable, she told herself. Now that she finally had him, she wasn't going to throw him away over some little jealousy argument. Was she? Oh dear. "Chill, Sidle," she ordered herself. "You're angry, so you're obviously going to blow this out of proportion." At that instant, the door of the shower opened. "What the . . . what the hell are you doing, Grissom?" she asked as her heart began to return to its normal rate.

Grissom said nothing, only climbed into the stall with her. "Grissom, stop. You can't just pop open the door lock and wander in here whenever you want." Not a word from the man facing her. Needing to feel his warmth and hating herself for it, Sara allowed herself to be embraced.

It took him a full five minutes to figure out what she was doing when he walked into the bedroom an hour later. Clothes were strewn around the room, covering the bed, the lamps, and the dresser. Was this what a Sidle tantrum looked like? He caught sight of her then. She was on the opposite side on the bed, carefully folding clothes she had selected out of the mess and stuffing them into a duffel bag. "Trying to save space?" he joked.

"No." She continued concentrating her task, seemingly oblivious to the confused man facing her.

He felt like his brain was full of mud, sluggish and confused. Something wasn't clicking here. "Then . . . what are you doing?"

Placing one more blouse into the bag, Sara finally looked at him. "This isn't working, Grissom."

"What isn't working?"

"This." She flung out an arm, encompassing Grissom, the room, and herself. "We aren't working. This isn't working."

Reality crashed into him. Sara was leaving. "Wha . . . how can it be not working? You were perfectly happy five minutes ago!"

"No, Grissom. YOU were happy five minutes ago. I was just . . . out of it. Are you getting any of this? Sex, even good sex, does not heal an argument. Yeah, you can make me forget about it for a few minutes, but what about the other 23 and a half hours?" She shook her head and began putting more clothes into her bag. "No, I guess you're not getting it. Well, get used to it. I'm not your punching bag, mental or otherwise."

"Punching bag? Sara!"

She shrugged. "Forget I said that. It doesn't matter. The point is that I'm going home." Heading off his protest, she added, "MY home. Not this place, your home. You made it clear that this doesn't belong to me." She stood up and slung the bag over her shoulder. "You know my number, Grissom. Maybe we can work this out once we're apart."


	64. Use lemons

They were fighting again. Catherine could tell, though they were both acting normal enough to fool Greg, Nick, and even Warrick. Unlike the men, she caught the subtleties, though it had taken her a few days to figure it out. They hadn't arrived to work in the same car since Monday, according to Brass. Catherine's own eyes told her that Sara seemed mostly normal, but her usual bounciness was a little strained. Grissom was the weak link in the chain of evidence she uncovered; he looked as though someone had just killed his favorite spider. He'd been moping around the lab ever since they day they had come in separate cars.

Catherine sat in the trace lab mulling the situation over. The geeks obviously weren't happy. From what she could gather, it looked like Sara may have moved back to her apartment, or at least refused to let Grissom drive her anywhere. What worried her most, though, was the fact that they were talking. This wasn't some little squabble where Sara would give him the silent treatment until he apologized; this was something big enough to make Sara think that Grissom wouldn't come to his senses in a day or two. What kind of fight could they have had to make Sara – who had been so incredibly happy with Grissom – give up?

Sara stood in the locker room shower squeezing lemons over her head and trying not to let the scent remind her of times past. Decomps were never pleasant, but this one was made worse by the fact that she was forced to use advice given by Grissom. She didn't want to think about him any more than she had to, yet little things like him telling her to "use lemons" kept popping into her mind. Lost in her mental war, she jumped when she heard her name through the curtain.

"Sara?" It was Nick's voice, thankfully. He was the one she could deal with most easily.

"What?" she answered him, not putting her head out of the shower.

"You ok in there? You've been acting weird today, so I just wanted to, uh, check in with you . . . see if everything's going okay."

Her lips formed a voiceless curse. If even Nick was noticing it, she was doomed. What to say? "Yeah, everything's fine. You know how I get with decomps," she lied.

Nick wasn't convinced. "Last time we had one, you just threw up in the corner then bounced back to work. Tonight you've been . . . withdrawn? That's not really the word I'm looking for, but you know what I mean. You haven't been talking to anyone more than you have to, and honestly Sara, I didn't see you even flinch when we opened that trashcan. No puking, no covering your nose – so it can't be the decomp. Something else is on your mind and it's time for you to get out of the shower, get dressed, and spill everything over some pizza at my house." He flicked a finger against the curtain, realizing just in time that popping his head around it, though acceptable when speaking to Warrick, probably wouldn't go over too well with Sara. "Well?" he prompted her.

Her next question, said in a suspicious voice, made him laugh. "What kind of pizza?" 

"Black olive, your favorite. Of course."

Sara sighed. "Ok. Give me ten minutes and I'll follow you home." Grissom didn't know what kind of pizza was her favorite. Why was she torturing herself over him, when she knew very well that he would never be the man who would remember those little, important things?

Grissom watched them leave from the shadows of his office. Sara didn't look upset. In fact, she looked radiant. She looked like she was having fun – she'd let her hair curl and the wind was blowing it in her face, making Nick laugh as he pressed a hand to either side of her head, trying to keep the mass under control. He leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. Sara was happy without him. He'd really screwed it up this time; in fact, he was starting to doubt that there was even an "it" left to screw up. He didn't hear the door open behind him, nor did he hear Catherine cross the carpet to stand at the next window.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" 

He flinched at the sound of her voice. "Oh. Cath, hi. I, uh, was concentrating . . . didn't hear you come in." He blinked. "What sucks?"

Catherine laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, I could kinda tell you didn't hear me, Gris," she noted sarcastically. "And what I was saying was, it sucks to think that someone is happier without you when you're miserable without them, doesn't it."

His eyes became expressionless. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was just staring out the window."

"Oh, come ON," she said, rolling her eyes skyward. "You expect me to believe that you were just staring at nothing with that puppy-dog look on your face?" She shook her head. "Uh-uh, my dear Gil. You were watching Sara and Nick. There's nothing to be jealous of there, you know. They're close, but they'd never, uh, get together or anything. Sara loves you, and Nick respects the hell out of you."

She was startled by the starkness in his voice. "Sara doesn't love me, Catherine."

She took a step back, staring at him. "Tell me." He shook his head, but she persisted. "You're obviously not making it any better by sitting in your office in the dark, moping over the fact that Sara's not doing the same. Try actually doing something about your problems instead of wallowing in them."

"I'm not wallowing, and your advice is unwelcome."

"Ouch. You've definitely got a burr up your shirt." She stepped forward again, going nose-to-nose with her friend. "Are you listening? You're not making things any better by giving up. I don't know what happened with you two; I don't even know if it was your fault, but it looks to me like Sara thinks it is, and face it, Gil – she's been doing all the forgiving the past few weeks."

He didn't back up, only matched her glare with his nose almost touching hers. "I said that your advice is unwelcome."

"Do I look like I care what you're saying? Like it or not, you need to resolve this somehow, and you know I'm your best bet." She took his silence for assent, though she knew he meant no such thing. "Get in your car. We're going to your house, with a pit stop to pick up some salmon on the way."


	65. Pizza or Scotch?

_Sara_

Nick slid another slice of pizza toward her. "Eat."

"Nick, I've already eaten three pieces. I'm full!"

"Eat it anyway. I may need to feed you into a stupor to make you tell me what's going on." He grinned at her. "You know you're going to tell me eventually, Sara. Why not just get it out in the open. I swear it'll make you feel better." He was starting to worry; usually Sara was all too quick to let loose with her frustrations. Her reticence this morning was a bad sign – this problem was bad. It could only be something about Grissom.

Sara took a bite of the pizza. "Your technique is lacking – Catherine just gave me two bottles of wine and waited half an hour."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time." He gentled his voice, trying to communicate his genuine concern. "Now come on Sar, tell me."

_Grissom_

Catherine pushed the bottle of scotch toward Grissom. "Drink."

"I've already had three of these, Cath. I don't think it's a good idea for me to overdo it on the alcohol tonight. I might start crying on you."

"Drink it, Gil. You're stiff as a board right now; I sincerely doubt the first three glasses have had any effect on you." She added another splash of the drink to the glass he held. "God knows you won't tell me anything without something loosening you up. Besides, you know you'll end up feeling better about it once I explain the world to you." Grissom was always hesitant to reveal his thoughts, but tonight thought she saw a chink in his armor. He was really convinced that Sara had deserted him, and she guessed that he didn't have the mental energy to try to block her out anymore.

He took a sip of his newly refilled drink. "What is it with you and alcohol? You used it to pry information out of Sara, and now you're trying to use it to get the story out of me?"

"What did you expect? Pizza? Trust me, alcohol works better than cheese when it comes to getting people to talk." She sat back against the couch. "Now tell me what happened, Gris, and don't leave anything out."

_Sara_

Nick ran a hand over Sara's hair. "Come on Sara, calm down, ok?" No response. He tried another tactic. "Sara, you're getting my shirt wet. Come on, you want to wash this thing? Didn't think so." 

That got a small smile out of her and she unwrapped her arms from around his waist. "Thanks, Nick. At least I know I can sob into your shirt, if no one else's." She swiped a hand across her face and let out a deep sigh. "I still don't know what to do. Come on Nick, you're male, you're supposed to be able to explain this stuff to me. What would possess a mature man to throw a fit of jealousy, imply that I sleep around, and then think that he can just charm me into forgiving him?" 

Nick threw up his hands. "I don't know! Half the time I don't even know what socks I'm wearing, Sara, and you expect me to be able to figure out GRISSOM?"

"So we're back at square one."

He shook his head and poked her in the arm. "Don't give up so easy! Just because I don't know what the hell he was thinking doesn't mean I'm not skilled in the art of helping you figure it out. Let's start with the basics: are you happier with him but fighting, or without him but peaceful?"

Sara sank down on his couch and stared at the ceiling. "You know, I still have dreams about that Nigel guy in your attic."

"Trust me, so do I. Don't change the subject."

"I was happy with him . . .  but I don't know whether I was happy because it was a good relationship, or because I'd finally gotten what I'd been wanting for close to ten years."

Nick plopped down next to her. "He was never just some popular kid that you wanted to show off to your friends, Sara. I'm pretty sure that you didn't want him just because you couldn't have him. Grissom's a hard-to-like guy, and if you'd just wanted a man to chase around the building, there were more obvious choices," he grinned, puffing out his chest comically. "Anyway, if you ask any of the people who work the night shift with you two, we'll tell you that you two are practically made for each other."

"So I should just forget about it because you think I love him?"

"No! I think you should do what makes YOU happy, not what makes me happy, or Greg happy, or Grissom happy. Do what you need to do to resolve this in your own mind, then worry about resolving it with the other players." He put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "See, that's your problem. You're fighting with yourself, and while you're struggling with that, there's no way you'll be able to figure out what's going through Grissom's head."

"I know what's going through Grissom's head," she said bitterly. "Thoughts about what a flighty female I am, and why do I take offense at every little thing he says, and why the hell can't sex fix everything?"

"I don't think so, Sara. Have you been watching him the past few days? I'd say what's going through his head is something more like, 'What am I going to do if she gives up on me?' or 'She won't leave Las Vegas because of me, will she?' or 'God, I wish women came with instruction manuals'. But Sara, my whole point is that you don't know what's going through his head, you can only guess. So first focus on figuring out what's going on in your own twisted mind." He raised his hand to block the piece of pizza crust that came flying at his head.

_Grissom_

"I know what's going through her mind, Cath," Grissom said in a slightly blurry voice. "She's wondering why she ever decided to date an old man. She's thinking that even if there was a good reason, I'm not worth it anymore because I keep causing trouble. And she's probably planning how she's going to get her belongings out of my house without having a confrontation with me."

Catherine snorted. "Great, I get you drunk and you start wallowing in your own misery. Get a grip, Gil, this is Sara we're talking about. She's never defined people by their age. If she just wanted to date someone who wasn't fifteen years older, she could have gone after Nick or Warrick, but she didn't even give them a second glance – she focused on YOU."

"That's because I'm her boss."

"No, it's because you're Gil Grissom." She plucked the glass out of his hand. "That's enough for you – you're just making yourself more confused. She's not thinking you're trouble. She IS probably wondering why you two can't be in the same room without arguing over something, but I really doubt she's blaming it on you. Perfectionism, you know? She's probably blaming herself if she's blaming anybody. And since when have you ever known Sara to back down from confronting something she's afraid of? If she decided to move out – which, I'm telling you, she probably won't – you'd find a big note on your door telling you the date and time and ordering you to be there."

"I'd like to think that, Cath, I really would. But everything I do seems to make my relationship with her worse. One of these days I'm finally going to drive her away and she'll be out of my life forever. And that'll be the end for me, I'm telling you."

Catherine tossed a bottle of water at him, not apologizing when it struck him in the chest. "Get over yourself, Gil. Stop worrying about what Sara's going to do and start worrying about what you're going to do to heal this split."

_Sara_

"I want him, Nick. I really do think I love him, and I refuse to throw that away and crawl back into my dark hole of a social life." She drew a deep breath. "I'm going to head home. I have some heavy thinking to do." She smiled a weakened but recognizable version of the Sidle grin.

_Grissom_

"I can't leave this alone another day, Cath. I need to go talk to her. I don't know what I'm going to say, but I need to see her and try to explain." Before Catherine could ask her next question, he answered it. "And yes, I'll be okay driving. I had my last drink almost four hours ago, it will have cleared my system by now."

The door of Sara's car slammed shut. Nick leaned in the window to deliver his last advice. "I'm here if you need me, Sara. But I think you know what you're going to do, even if you won't admit it to me or yourself."

Catherine put out a hand to stop the car door as Grissom tried to pull it closed. "Be careful, ok? Watch the road and watch what you say when you get to Sara's. I don't want to have to scrape you off Sara's street OR her kitchen floor." He nodded. "Luck, Gris!" she called as he backed out of her driveway.


	66. Something's burning at Sara's house

Sara was awakened by the smell of something burning. She jerked up to a sitting position and almost fell off the couch, having forgotten that she had fallen asleep on it minutes after arriving home, then sniffed. Yeah, something was definitely burning. Standing up, she began to trace the scent through the apartment, ending up in the kitchen doorway, completely nonplussed.

In her kitchen stood Grissom, frantically fanning a towel at the smoke detector and holding a water-drenched pan of burned eggs as though it was about to bite him. His back was to her, thankfully, and he didn't see the chain of emotions that flowed across her features: confusion, amusement, resentment, defensiveness, and finally anger. "What are you doing in here, Grissom?" He whirled around in surprise and nearly launched the eggs across the room.

Giving her a half-sheepish, half-indignant look, he muttered, "Making breakfast. At least, trying to."

"That wasn't what I meant." She remained in the doorway, on the defensive now that she had accepted the fact that he had snuck into her home. "What are you doing in my apartment?" She emphasized "my," making it clear that he didn't belong there. 

Grissom visibly steeled himself for the confrontation that was about to happen. Placing the pan gently in the sink – "I'll wash it when we're done" – he wiped off his hands and gestured toward Sara's living room. "Can we sit and talk?"

She had intended to do this, to try to talk it out with him, but now that he had taken the choice from her, Sara wasn't feeling charitable. He wasn't her father, her keeper, or even her husband. Grissom did not get the right to decided what was best for her, and that was why she was mad at him in the first place: his autocratic, "I know what you're doing and I'm going to fix it" attitude. 

"Why, Grissom? You can talk just as easily standing up, and it's probably pointless to sit you down, since you'll be leaving in exactly," she looked at her watch, "five minutes." Taking in his pleading look, she shook her head. "No, Grissom. You said everything you needed to say last time."

"I didn't. I said everything I didn't want to say. The devil made me do it," he said, trying for a humorous tone. He didn't know how this conversation had gone so bad so fast, but he wasn't leaving this apartment until they had resolved this. He tried again. "Come on, Sara, please. Let's work this out instead of sniping at each other."

It didn't work, and Sara's face only hardened. "You don't want US to work this out – you want me to let YOU work this out, then smile and nod and agree with what you decide." His wounded look only irritated her more. "Oh don't give me that look! You know you think this is about 'some female thing' and you think if I calm down things will be all better." She checked her watch again. "Three minutes, Grissom. Better talk fast."

Grissom's patience was wearing thin. Though he honestly wanted to make this better, he still didn't understand what she was so angry about, and why she was getting angrier by the minute. "Listen," he said sternly, "I came here to try to fix this. If you're going to stand there and yell at me and not even let me speak, then I'm out of here and you'll have to wonder what I was going to say." He was pleased to see Sara's mouth snap shut, though she still looked like she wanted to sock him.

"Good," he continued after a few seconds. "Now sit down, please, and listen to me." She did, scowling. "I don't know what I did to make you so angry, Sara. Catherine told me it has something to do with me not liking you kissing Greg, but I don't understand why that's so wrong." Sara started to speak, but he gave her a threatening look and she held her peace. "So I need you to tell me why it's so wrong for me to not want my woman to kiss other men."

Sara ground her teeth in an attempt to keep from screaming. "I am not 'your' woman, Gil. I'm my own woman.  You don't own me, and frankly, if I wanted to kiss Greg every night – which I don't want, and never have – it would be none of your business. The only decisions you get to make in this situation are, first, do you really want to pretend that I'd cheat on you, and second, if you really believe I would, whether you want to dump me or not. That's it, Grissom. You have no right to lecture me, or judge me, or tell me what's right or wrong."

He stared at her. "I didn't say I thought you would cheat on me." Sara raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well that's not what I meant, at least. If you interpreted it that way, I'm sorry, but . . ." His voice trailed off in amazement as Sara let out the loudest scream he'd ever heard. It must have gone on for almost a minute, and he could only stare at her for another minute after it ended. "I, uh . . . are you ok over there?"

"You DID say that! You're acting like I'm taking this all wrong, but let me tell you, YOU'RE the one who said it, not me! What else could 'I don't like you kissing other men' possibly mean, Grissom, other than that you're the only one I'm allowed to touch and if I touch anyone else it's cheating'?" As she spoke, she crossed the room until her nose was touching his and she was yelling, full-volume, right into his face. He showed no reaction, and the last thin thread of Sara's control finally snapped. She reared back and slapped him across the face

Grissom's head snapped back and he stumbled where he stood. He'd been slapped a few times, but not by someone as strong as Sara. Putting a hand to his cheek, he felt the flesh get warm as blood rushed to site of the injury. After a few seconds he lifted his head to look at Sara. Her face was perfectly white and the brown eyes he loved so much were staring blankly at him. "Sara?"

"I've never hit anyone before. When I was angry, I mean," she said mechanically. "I can't believe I just did that. I've never hit anyone before." She closed her eyes and Grissom could see her lips moving as she repeated something to herself, over and over.

"Sara?" he asked again. No answer, she only continued to mumble to herself. "Sara." His anger had been replaced by a sense of panic. What was wrong with her? "Sara!" He reached out, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her. Sara's eyes snapped open and focused on his face. 

"I've never hit anyone before."

"Stop saying that! I know you haven't, Sara. I'm fine, see?" He took a step back, allowing her to scan his face for damage. "You needed to vent your anger, and a slap was probably the least destructive way. It's fine, I guess I deserved it anyway."

She shook her head. "No you didn't. I practically gave you whiplash. I shouldn't have . . . I mean, it's just WRONG to hit someone because you're angry. Wrong for men, and wrong for women."

He cupped her cheek in his palm. "I'm fine. Believe me, please. Honestly, Sara, I can deal better with physical pain than knowing you're in mental pain." When he felt her relax and let his hand support her face, Grissom wanted to cheer. "Please, Sara, talk to me. Let's sit down and work this out." He felt her nod against his palm.__


	67. Are we in a romance novel, or am I just

Sara's eyes flashed as she spoke, and Grissom wondered whether they were reflecting pain or anger at the story she was telling. ". . . So I've already done that more than once, and I'm not going to sit around and deal with it again. 'Been there, done that,' so to speak."

Grissom was trying to absorb the facts coming out of her mouth. It was hard to believe that Sara, strength embodied, had had a string of controlling boyfriends before she moved to Las Vegas. "But none of them ever, uh . . . you didn't let them hit you?" He didn't want to ask - the thought was repugnant – but he needed to know. Strong as she was, Sara was still delicately built, and the thought of a fist crashing into her made him want to cry. 

"No. I'm not stupid, Grissom; I know the signs. I may have gotten smacked around mentally, but none of them ever touched me with their fists. That was why I was so shocked that I hit you tonight. I've never, ever wanted to use violence against someone who hasn't used violence against me first. And I'll have you know," she added, "that no woman 'lets' a man hit her. You think they enjoy it? That they sit around saying, 'Oh gee, I'm bored today – I feel like getting a broken cheekbone'?" She shook her head. "You should know better."

"I do. I mean, I said that wrong. I didn't mean it to sound like you would sit still while someone hit you." He sighed. "Why didn't you ever tell me any of this, Sara? You knew I was there and that I would have protected you, but you never told me about the men in the past or the ones you dated when you knew me."

She shrugged defensively. "It wasn't any of your business. I didn't need you to protect me; I did fine protecting myself. Besides, I was younger and stupider – who do you think I would have chosen: the wonderful man who ignored me and made me feel like a kid, or the not-so-wonderful men who made me feel special?" When Grissom didn't answer, she sighed. "Like I said, it wasn't your business anyway. If you or anyone else had found out, no one would have respected me at work. I dealt with it myself, and I broke the chain. Or so I thought, until you started with the possessive act."

He was taken aback. She was grouping him with those others who had mistreated her? "Sara, you know I'm not like that. I don't want you to believe that I think you belong to me and not yourself."

"People change, Gris. Once upon a time when we were friends in California, I would have been sure you'd never think that. Now I've had experience with the world. I still don't want to think that you'd treat me that way, but I can't rule out the possibility. They all started out nice, then they tightened their grip bit-by-bit. So I keep my eyes open and my mind clear; I can't afford to make assumptions about men."

Grissom was silent for a few minutes, thinking. "The abusive husbands, the injured women . . . this explains a lot about your reactions to the job, Sara." She nodded, saying nothing, and he continued, "What can I do to prove myself? I thought you trusted me, but now you've knocked me completely off balance. I don't want to own you; I want you to, I don't know, to let me spend my money and time making you happy."

"It makes me happy just to spend time with you. But I can't deal with you trying to monopolize me. You should know by now that I'm not going to sleep around whether I'm dating you or not. I do have some self-respect, and a strong sense of what's right. You need to trust me before I can completely trust you." She leaned her chin against her palm, eyeing him sideways. "It takes too much out of me to worry about this. The others I could deal with, but if I find that you're like them, too . . . I'm afraid one of two things will happen. Either I'll have to leave – both you and Vegas – out of fear, or I'll end up one of those women who say, 'I love him too much to leave him, no matter what he does'."

"If you ever decide that you'd be happier without me, Sara, I want you to tell me. I'll let you go, no questions asked. I don't want you to feel like I'm holding you in place. Just please, don't disappear, and don't you dare stay silent and 'endure'. I want you to know now that I'd rather see you happy without me than unhappy with me, no matter whether I'm happy or not."

Sara's tension was starting to drain out of her; she even managed a small smile. "I'll write that down, Romeo. You know, I ought to tell you secrets more often if it will always get you to declare your undying love for me. I feel like I'm in a romance novel – but a good one!"

Grissom harrumphed and playfully poked her in the arm. He drew his hand away as though Sara's arm were a hot stove as soon as he realized what he had done, and looked fearfully at her. "It's fine," she assured him. "I won't break. You're allowed to touch me, I promise. In fact, if you stop touching me, I'll be one very cranky woman." That got a smile out of him, and she breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't be afraid of me, either, Gris. Fear has no place on either side of a relationship – if I've learned one thing through the years, it's that." 

He nodded, but she could tell that he was going to be walking on eggshells around her for a long time. This was why she hadn't wanted to tell him in the first place. She supposed it was her task now to distract him from the feeling that she was some delicate female. "Hey Gris?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't, like, throw out my stuff or anything, did you? Cause you know, if you did then you'd have to take me shopping for more clothes – and god knows neither of us would enjoy that." She grinned at the look on his face.

He snorted. "No, Sidle, I didn't. Would you believe me if I told you that I cried into one of your nightshirts every night?"

"Not unless I saw it with my own eyes."

"Why don't you come home, then, and see for yourself what I've been doing while you were gone?"

Sara nodded and touched a finger to his slightly bruised cheek. "Yeah . . . let's go home. I like your shower better, anyway."__


	68. Told you I wouldn't break!

A/N: Thanks to Rosa for her wonderful phrasing abilities. Without her, Sara pinning Grissom would have sounded like a cheap sex novel. Instead it sounds like a sorta expensive sex novel!

Chapter 68

"Grissom," Sara groaned, "you lied, you did throw out some of my stuff!" She picked up a bra that was hanging over the side of the bathroom trashcan and playfully tossed it at his head. "I'm pretty sure this isn't yours, and it IS in your garbage can."

He caught the projectile and held up his hands helplessly, grinning back at her. "It's ripped, what did you want me to do with it?" He paused, striking a dramatic "thinking" pose. "Well I suppose I could have slept with it under my pillow . . . or worn it under my shirt so I could feel close to you? But then the boys at work would have thought I was a little odd."

Sara was enjoying this banter. Lately they'd spent most of their time arguing, not joking around or even just talking. "Well, I suppose it could be Catherine's," she mused out loud, an evil grin on her face. "You and your harem of female CSIs . . ."

"No offense, Sara dear," Grissom answered her in an overly sweet voice, "but I suspect that if it were Catherine's, it would fill a larger proportion of that trashcan. You know, you're just not as, uh . . . well never mind that." He grinned wider when Sara gasped.

"Grissom! Did you really just say that? Eeww!" Though she knew it was true, she also knew that Grissom meant no offense. Sara had long ago faced the reality of her less-than-abundant chest. Such a remark couldn't go unpunished, though, and she caught him by surprise with a leg sweep behind his knees, knocking him down before he could react.

Grissom went over onto his back without a sound, managing an "oof!" only as he hit the ground. Before he could say more than that, she had trapped his hips with her knees and his shoulders with her hands, placing the topic of conversation squarely in his viewing area. "So you'd rather have Catherine's boobs in your face like this?" she growled, leaning farther over him.

Grissom reached out and knocked her off her hands so that she landed flat on his chest, then smiled an inch away from her face. "Well, you know, I take what I can get . . ." He stopped, letting out a comical squeak as Sara's knees squeezed him. "Ow! Mercy!" he laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "You already beat me up once today!"

She levered herself back up onto her hands for a moment, eyeing him warily. "Let's not talk about that, ok? If you keep bringing it up I'm gonna keep feeling more guilty. And when I get guilty, I'm not such a big fan of wrestling grown men to the ground."

"Heaven forbid! I'll forget it ever happened." He grabbed a hunk of her hair and gently pulled her down toward him again. "Now come on, my ego's as bruised as my cheek, make me feel better!"

_Later_

            "Told you I wouldn't break," Sara said, smirking at him. She was sprawled over Grissom on the couch, idly toying with his hand. As she laced her fingers with his and wiggled them experimentally, she added, "It didn't even occur to you to worry about that once I got you distracted, did it?"

Grissom shook his head. "You're right, Sidle, I forgot about it." He tightened his grip on her hand and began to push their joined hands toward her; Sara, in turn resisted the pressure, leaving their hands dueling in midair between them. "You're right too often," he quipped. "I'm the boss, I'm supposed to be the one who's right."

Sara grinned. "Yeah, well, you're the one who gets to correct all of us at work, so it's really only fair that I get to be right at home." She swiftly slipped her hand out of his grip, causing Grissom to propel himself slightly forward with the pressure he was still exerting. "Gotcha," she laughed as she caught hold of his head and pulled him down to give him a crooked kiss.

Chuckling, Grissom extricated himself from her grip and sat up, pausing to check his watch. "Five forty-five, Sara, better get in the shower." He gave her a gentle push and Sara, not expecting it, rolled off his lap to land with a "thump" on the ground. 

She scrambled to her feet and gave him a dirty look. "Grissom! You know, sometimes I hate you." She smiled inwardly at the apprehensive look that appeared on his face and added, "Other times, I just want to very deliberately make you late for work – just so you have to explain it to everyone else."

He held up his hands defensively. "Not tonight, dear, I have a headache." When Sara tried to hide a grin at hearing the old joke in this context, he gave her a smarmy look and added, "Also, we both have way too much work to get done to goof off now. Imagine trying to explain to Mobley that we were too busy in the shower to check on those DNA results?"

Sara eyed him thoughtfully. "Fine, fine," she replied in a whiney tone, "I'll go get . . ." she choked on a laugh as she consciously looked Grissom full in the face for the first time in hours, but managed to quickly finish, "get a, um, shower. Bye!" She sprinted through the doorway and into the bathroom, leaving Grissom puzzling about what was so funny. Did he have lipstick on his cheek or something? 

He took a swipe at his cheek with the back of his hand, but it came away clean – no lipstick, no makeup. What was so funny??

  



	69. You are NOT putting makeup on me

Catherine took one look at Grissom's face that night and burst out laughing. Grissom scowled at her, still wondering just what was so funny about his face. He'd forgotten to check it out before he and Sara had left for work. "What, Catherine? Care to share the humor?"

She grinned. "Oh, I don't know, Gil . . . it might be fun to keep you in ignorance and see how long we can make it last." Taking in his dark look, she sighed. "Geez, you always ruin my fun. Here," she said, digging a compact out of her purse, "take a look at yourself."

Grissom took the mirror from her and opened it apprehensively. The sight that greeted him when he focused it on his face would have been funny, he had to admit – if it weren't his face that was bearing a large, purple handprint-shaped bruise. "Oh, damn."

"Either you and Sara made up, or you somehow managed make her more pissed off than she was already. Which is it?"

"Made up," he muttered, furiously trying to think of a way to cover the bruise so that no one else could comment on it. As he snapped the compact shut and handed it back to Catherine, Sara entered the break room, already snickering.

"You didn't tell me!" he accused immediately.

"Can you really blame me? Catherine had to see this. Come on," she teased him, "admit it, it's pretty damn funny-looking." She took in Grissom's expression and grimaced. "Ok, fine, it's not funny at all, whatever you say, Gris."

Catherine clapped a hand over Grissom's mouth, cutting off whatever comment he had been about to make. "You know, Sara, I really think he's going to need some damage control so that no one else sees this baby." She patted his bruised cheek lightly with her other hand. "I've got some foundation, but I don't think it's his color."

Grissom flung her hand away. "You are NOT putting makeup on me, Catherine. No way."

Sara put a thoughtful finger to the side of her mouth. "No, Gris, I think she's right. Either you walk around all day with my handprint bruised into your face – and explain it to everyone you see – or you let me and Cath cover it up with what we have. Meaning makeup," she added with an irreverent grin.

Grissom muttered a curse, knowing that the women were right. "You two better be Olympic-quality makeup artists, then, because if anyone notices me wearing," he shuddered theatrically, "makeup, I'm going to be laughed at harder than if people know that Sara can beat the hell out of me." He noticed Sara's frown at that statement. "I mean, laughed at harder than if people knew I had made you so angry you hit me," he corrected himself.

Sara's frown subsided and she turned to Catherine. "Let me see what shades you have. Between us we can probably mix up a decent color." Catherine nodded, and the two spent the next few minutes mixing makeup and then comparing shades to Grissom's cheek.

"Got it," Catherine announced after five minutes. "Half Natural Ivory and half Tawny."

"'Natural Ivory'?" Grissom asked desperately. "'Tawny'??"

Sara grinned. "Deal with it, bugman. Just think of it as . . . hmm . . . environmental camouflage used to become less noticeable to one's enemies." 

Catherine smiled at that. "Ooh, good one Sara." She looked at Grissom seriously and began to dot the foundation onto his cheek while Sara did the same on his jaw line. "Now stay still or you'll end up with makeup in places it shouldn't be."

"Damn," Sara muttered, "it's a hell of a lot harder to put on foundation over a man's stubble than it is to put it on my own face." Catherine nodded emphatically at that comment.

Before Grissom could get out a retort to _that_ revelation, Warrick wandered into the break room. It took the younger man a few seconds to look up and realize what was happening, but when he did he let out a shout of laughter. The women had covered about half of the handprint, and Grissom now had a set of disembodied black-and-blue fingers on his cheek.

"Shut up, Warrick!" Sara hissed, waving an annoyed hand at him. "We'll tell you about it in a second, just sit down and have some coffee or something." 

Warrick did as ordered and wordlessly took a seat, watching the goings-on avidly. He couldn't think of a thing to say in response to the situation, anyway. When Catherine finally stepped away and took a last look at her handiwork, he whispered rather loudly, "What the hell, Cath?"

Catherine shrugged and said only, "Sara." Warrick thought for a moment and then nodded in a way that indicated that he definitely understood now.

"Duked it out, did they?"

"Yep."

"We can hear you guys, you know," Sara pointed out. "If you two want to get . . . private . . . go somewhere else." 

Grissom let out a surprised laugh at that and nodded. "Yeah, it's about time someone besides me and Sara got the pressure turned on."

It was Catherine's turn to scowl at the others. "You guys know nothing," she said in a voice that told them that if they did know anything, they were to forget it ASAP. "Me and Warrick . . . you, uh . . ."

"Give it up, Cat," Sara snorted. "I was in the hot seat last week; it's damn well your turn now. Not that me and Gris are goingt o be paying much attention," she said, wiggling her eyebrows, "but you know, maybe Nick or Greg could be filled in on this situation . . ."

"You two are so dead!" Catherine shouted.

Hearing the noise, Nick popped his head in the door. "Why are they 'so dead'?"

Four voices answered him: "Go away, Nick!"

"Okay, okay," he said, holding out his hands innocently. "Just wondering. Y'all can just, uh, fill me in whenever you get a second." With that, he beat a hasty retreat out of the room, wondering just what was so secret that they couldn't tell him.


	70. Do not squeeze the puppies

"Ok, guys," Grissom said as the group took their seats at the table for assignments, "enough about the stupid handprint. Let's focus on science tonight, shall we?"

Nick cast a surprised look at the group. Handprint? "Uh, Grissom? What handprint? Is it evidence or something?" Sara glared at him, scribbled something on a post-it note, and shoved it in his direction. 

He opened it warily, wondering if Sara could curse as well in writing as she could out loud. To his surprise, the note contained not one profanity. "Grissom had/has a hand-shaped bruise on his face from where I slapped him last night. Cath and I covered it with makeup. End of story. Don't you dare start laughing when you read this, 'cause if you do, either Grissom or I will come after you when you least expect it." Nick ran a finger under his collar and swallowed hard. Revenge from the geeks was a bad thing. He'd keep his face straight if it was the last thing he did.

"So," Grissom's continuing voice interrupted Nick's contemplation, "there's the unconscious man found in suspicious circs – that's going to be me and Sara – and sexual assault with an MO that's suspiciously like last night's attempted. Catherine, take Nick and Warrick with you to do that one." 

Sara's hand shot up when he had finished talking. Feeling like a preschool teacher, Grissom said, "Yes, Sara?"

"I want the assault."

"I just told you you're with me tonight," he told her patiently.

"Too bad. I want the assault."

"Sara . . ."

"Assault, Grissom. Don't argue with me about this. Take Catherine with you to the suspicious circs." She gave him a look that dared him to try to stop her from taking the case she wanted.

Grissom, as she'd expected, decided it was easier to acquiesce than to argue with her. "Fine, Sara. You two," he said, pointing two fingers at Nick and Warrick, "come talk to me when we're done here." The two younger men exchanged looks, knowing that whatever Grissom had to say would probably get them in trouble with Sara, somehow.

"Gris . . ."  began Sara with an annoyed look on her face. 

Grissom cut her off before she could say any more. "I'm speaking to Nick and Warrick, Sara, not you." He was rewarded with an even darker look from the woman across the table.

"Oh, for god's sake you two!" exclaimed Catherine into the uneasy silence. "Stop with the ego wars and let's just go do our work, ok?"

"Fine."

As the five CSIs filed out of the room, Sara crossed her arms and leaned against the corridor wall, waiting for the male powwow to finish. She glared at each of the men as they entered Grissom's office. Nick and Warrick had the grace to flush, but Grissom simply looked at her calmly.

Grissom motioned the two men to chairs and spoke. "I just want you two to be aware that Sara has . . . some issues with abused women. Be careful what you do and say around the scene tonight."

"Dude," asked Nick in amazement, "are _you_ aware that we've both been working with Sara for years and though we may be just dumb guys, we've noticed that she gets worked up about these cases?" He leaned forward and waved a hand in front of Grissom's face. "Hellooo, Grissom. You do realize that Sara will kick your ass when she finds out you're talking to us like she can't do it herself?"

Warrick jumped in, agreeing with Nick. "Yeah man, whether you two are dating or not, this is her business, not yours. We know you mean well," he said quickly, holding up a quelling hand, "but it's just not your place to be telling us Sara's secrets or whatever. If she wants us to know, she'll tell us herself." He shook his head. "Just not right, man."

Grissom was speechless for a moment. Had he really been acting so . . . paternally? Not that there was anything paternal about his feelings for Sara, he thought with a small smile. Had this been what she had been so angry about this week? He was just trying to protect a woman who was precious to him. He was also used to being the boss, too, he reminded himself. Was he playing "Grissom knows best"?

Grissom snapped back to reality when a large brown hand waved in front of his face. "Earth to Grissom," called Warrick's amused voice. "I'll take your silence to mean that you get our point. Can we go work now?"

Grissom nodded. "Yes, yes, go." As they left, he caught sight of Sara, who was still standing quite still outside his office. He gave her a tentative smile, but was answered with a pointedly blank look as she turned to smile at Nick. 

Just as Grissom was rising to make his own exit, Catherine sidled into his office. Before he could speak, Catherine said, "Yeah, I know, work. Just give me two minutes." Grissom sighed and sat back in his chair, waiting for the inevitable lecture.

"You can't keep her with you all the time, you know," Catherine began. "I know you're infatuated with her – and vice versa – but try to remember that you're two people, not one. You may not feel it, but I speak from experience that the tighter you try to hold someone, the more they squirm." 

Grissom frowned. "I'm not trying to hold her tightly, Catherine. I'm fully aware that Sara is her own person." He rubbed his forehead. "Can we just get out of here? We have a case to see."

Grissom was surprised when his friend nodded amiably, but he soon found the reason. In the Tahoe, he was a captive audience to her lecture. "We both know Sara's her own person, Gris. That's not in question. The part in question is whether you're allowing yourself to be your own person."

"Catherine," he said tiredly, "can you please try speaking in English for once, rather than in Female-ese? Obviously I'm my own person!"

Catherine sighed. "Never mind, Gil. Just keep my advice in mind. Don't hold so tight. Did you ever have a puppy or a kitten when you were little?"

Grissom nodded apprehensively. "I had a puppy. What does that have to do with anything?"

"Remember when you first got it and you just wanted to hug it constantly like a teddy bear? Er," she corrected herself, "I somehow doubt you had teddy bears. But did you ever hug the dog really hard – purely from affection – and get nipped? Or have the dog jump away from you and avoid you for a week?"

"I get the point, Cath. You're belaboring your analogy."

"Ok, ok. Just letting you know that Sara's fully capable of biting, so to speak. And not in a good way." Having imparted this wisdom, she turned in her seat and began to watch the buildings fly by, leaving Grissom to restrain himself from tossing the dead cricket he'd found on the dashboard at her.


	71. Meg!

A/N: Thanks to silverrain for coming up with the idea of trading scenarios. Horatio and Meghan's situation in this chapter is her creation, as is about half of the text. Both are borrowed (traded, actually…) from her story "Ancient History."

            Sara hated sexual assaults. Everyone knew that; and that was the reason Nick and Warrick were conversing quietly in a corner watching her. Not because she was a basket case, but because she wasn't. Sara was handling this assault scene like she would handle any crime scene. No rage, no stalking around hoping she could find the culprit and hit him.

            "Do you think she overheard the conversation we had with Grissom? And she's trying to prove him wrong?" asked a confused Nick.

            "Maybe. More likely she guessed what we were talking about – you know how Grissom's office is almost soundproof. Smart girl, it's not like she's not going to believe he invited us in for tea."

            That got a laugh from his friend. "Oh man, can you imagine Grissom drinking out of a tea set, pinkie up in the air . . .!" Nick shook his head, still chuckling, then caught sight of Sara approaching them. He elbowed Warrick in the ribs, muttering, "Incoming." Warrick, no fool, clammed up.

            "Hey guys," she said. "I think we're almost done here. Or at least, _I'm_ almost done here. You two have been gossiping for the past twenty minutes." She grinned at their obvious discomfort. "Anyway, I'm going to go with the vic to get a rape kit done. I'll catch a ride back with one of the EMTs or something." The irony of this statement didn't escape her, and she had to laugh. "So, meet you guys back at CSI?" 

Nick and Warrick shrugged. "Behave yourself," Nick reminded her as he turned to head back to the Tahoe. Sara chucked a small rock at his back, smiling when he yelped.

As it turned out, they arrived back at the labs at the same time as Sara. The victim's parents had been there and hadn't wanted a stranger anywhere near her. The rape kit would have to come back with one of the attending EMTs after they finished reporting. As the three pulled into the parking lot at CSI, they noticed a strange car in the staff parking lot. "Visitors?" Warrick asked skeptically. Nick shrugged and headed for the entrance, Sara behind him.

No one new when they passed through the doors, no one in the break room, no one with Greg in DNA. "Out in the field, maybe," Warrick posited. Nick only shrugged again. 

They continued walking until they reached Grissom's office. "You know Grissom's gonna want to hear about Sara's sudden turn-around," Nick laughed. As they turned the last corner, they caught sight of a familiar profile. 

"Yo, Nick," Warrick grinned. "Isn't that your friend?" he asked, drawing out "friend" in a suggestive way. Sara blinked, confused.

"Shut up man. You know Meghan's not my girlfriend. I'm telling you, she's going to end up with that redheaded guy down in Florida." As he spoke, the two approached the doorway. Without any introduction, Nick let out a whoop. "Meg!" he yelled, swooping her into a bear hug.

Meghan laughed and hugged him right back. "Hi, Nick. Glad to see you still haven't grown up." 

Nick pouted in mock hurt. "You wound me, madame." Listening to Nick speak with half an ear, Sara observed the redheaded man who had come with Meghan, a stranger to all of them. He was busy giving them a once-over. Sara supposed it was only fair, since that was what she was doing to him. 

Warrick walked over and hugged Meghan, but without the rambunctiousness of Nick. "Good to see you, Meg." 

"You too, Warrick." 

Horatio Caine, observing silently, noticed that the brown-haired woman had edged off to the side, and was now standing between Meghan and Grissom. 

"Hey, Meg," she said softly, without even a hint of affection. 

            "Sara!" Meghan grinned and went to hug her friend. To her surprise, Sara took a step back and spoke in a suspiciously emotionless voice. "What are you doing here, Meghan?"

Meghan turned to Horatio, suddenly remembering that he was, indeed, in the room. She smiled apologetically and held up one finger. "In a minute, Sara. First, introductions all around. Guys, this is Horatio Caine, head of the CSI department in Miami, and, for the moment, my new partner. Horatio, these are the CSIs here in Las Vegas. That's Sara Sidle," She pointed to the woman next to her. "Warrick Brown, and the hyperactive one over there is Nick Stokes." Everyone gave a round of brief smiles and nods. 

"So, Meg, what did you want my help with?" Grissom asked. 

Meghan brandished the jar holding the cocoon in it at Grissom. "My dear friend down in Miami left me a present at the scene. Only problem is, I can't unwrap it. I was hoping you could." 

Grissom took the jar from her and examined it more closely. "What is it?" 

"It's a cocoon," Horatio offered. "We just don't know what's inside." 

"Your people down in Miami can't tell?" 

"Nope. We had them look at it, but no one really specializes in bugs. So we have no idea what it is." There was a moment of tense silence. 

"I guess I'll take a look. You'll have to wait a bit, though. Maybe an hour or so."  Meghan gave a sigh of relief and hugged Grissom tightly. 

"Oh, thank you. You cannot possibly imagine how much you are helping me." Suddenly, Horatio noticed that Sara's face had turned noticeably redder. As he watched, Warrick put a hand on Sara's arm, as if to try to keep her from hitting someone. 

Meghan released Grissom and turned to the room at large. A startled look crossed her face as she looked at Sara. The brunette appeared to be glaring at Grissom, and Meghan said the first thought that came to mind. "Does he not have time to help us?"

"Oh, no Meg," said Sara snidely. "I'm sure he has PLENTY of time for you." Nick and Warrick, the only two who knew exactly what was going on, both winced.

 Meghan chose to play dumb. She had a decent idea of what was angering her friend, but she wasn't going to say a word. "Okay, we'll be back in about an hour. You have my cell." 

"Aw, come on Meg," Nick whined. "You're not going to stick around?" 

She punched Nick playfully in response. "Nick, as much as I'd like to stay and knock you around, I have things I need to do. So we'll save the beatings for a later time, ok?" She turned around to face Grissom. "Speaking of which, Gris, why do you have a large handprint bruised into your face?" 

Grissom blushed slightly and cast an annoyed glance at Sara. "The make-up must have . . ." he began, then interrupted himself with a cough. "I'll tell you later." 

Looking around, Meghan caught an anxious glance from Warrick. She could tell that Sara had been growing angrier by the minute, and the progress showed no signs of stopping. Judging by the death glare she was receiving, it was about time to remove herself from Sara's presence. She decided to make haste and leave. "Okay then. See you guys in an hour."   

Nick turned to Sara when Meghan and Horatio had made their exit. "Hey, Sara . . . we need to, uh, we need to go over some evidence in the drying room. And you've got that rape kit to wait for." Nick hooked an arm around her waist and half-led, half-dragged Sara out of the room with Warrick bringing up the rear to prevent her escape.

With a concentrated effort, the two men managed to get Sara into one of the evidence rooms and out of Grissom's hearing. Nick tentatively released her, hoping she wouldn't retaliate.

 "That bastard!"

"Chill, Sar. You guys are both friends with Meghan, it's not like they were getting it on. He was just being nice."

"Nice? NICE??? She was all over him and he was eating it up! He was practically ogling her! Some friend, parading herself in front of my . . . in front of Grissom."

"She wasn't parading, Sara. Get real. First of all, she's not wearing a low-cut shirt, so there's not much to ogle. Second, she hugged him because he said he could help her, not because she's a sex fiend or something. It only looked like she was fawning – you know how you have to stroke Grissom's ego sometimes." Nick nodded definitively at what came out of his mouth. "Yeah, that's it. Besides, I'm convinced she's gonna end up with that Horatio guy one day, so trust me, you're not in any danger of losing Grissom."

"HAH! So you admit she was fawning! And . . . stroking!"

Warrick sighed. "This is gonna be a long night."


	72. Workin' in the coal mine

Sara spent the rest of the night working on the newly arrived rape kit. The victim, a nineteen-year-old by the name of Susan Akers, had insisted on sending a short note with the evidence from her body. It said only, "Whoever works on this evidence . . . Get this bastard for me. Please." Sara held the note gently and closed her eyes. "I will, Susan. I will." 

She slowly emptied out the large bag, leaving a number of smaller packages, and did a mental inventory. Seven manila envelopes marked "Hair," each with a short description and the collecting doctor's initials, and another ten matching envelopes containing fibers. Three covered swabs, one each for oral, vaginal, and anal biological evidence. Two more manila envelopes marked "Fingernail Clippings," one each for the left and right hands. Finally, a carefully packed vial of the victim's blood. She nodded her approval, acknowledging that the hospital had done an adequate job collecting evidence from Susan Akers.

She began by ferrying the blood and fingernail clippings to Greg in the DNA lab. "Fast, please, Greg," she added. Greg, always willing to put in a little more effort to make her happy, nodded and pushed aside the other evidence he had been about to start on. Relieved that she would soon know what there was to know, Sara smiled, patted his cheek, and headed back to the lab where she had the other evidence spread out.

"Hair, hair, hair . . ." she mumbled to herself as the opened the first envelope, which bore the note "Known victim sample, head." After a few minutes taking notes on its characteristics, she did the same with another hair envelope, this one marked "Known victim sample, pubic," then the last known hair, marked, "Known victim sample, eyelash," and finally moved to the unknown hairs. "Unknown, victim pubic region." "Unknown, stuck to victim's back." "Unknown (possible eyelash/brow), victim neck." "Attacker, pulled out by victim."

Sara sighed. Judging by just the amount of hair she'd received, there was going to be a mountain of evidence for her to deal with tonight and tomorrow. She briefly considered the prospect of pulling a voluntary double-shift, but decided against it. Neither her patience nor her attention span would last that long after tonight's happenings. She would do as much as she could in the next four hours, then go home, sleep, and come back to work early tomorrow.

The though of going home caused her blood pressure to rise. Home was with Grissom, whom she was currently angry at. Why did they spend all of their time between shifts – and often during them – fighting? Wasn't the fighting supposed to happen before the romance? Or happen once and then everyone lived happily ever after? She shook her head, laughing at herself. How could she expect a relationship between her and Grissom to be anything resembling what it was supposed to be?

She gave up on trying to think about it and turned back to the evidence. Giving each of the unknowns a basic examination, she was soon able to draw some preliminary conclusions, based on characteristics she observed. The unknown pubic hair did not belong to the victim, nor did the unknown facial hair. The hair found on the victim's back was a head hair and wasn't hers either. In fact, it was microscopically similar to the hair known to have come from the attacker, and so Sara noted, "probably attacker" on the envelope. She smiled grimly. This was good – the attacker had left behind all sorts of pieces of him. 

She jumped a foot in the air when Nick popped his head through the door and greeted her. "Jesus, Nick!" she exclaimed, turning around to face him. 

"Just wanted to check on my favorite woman with a hair trigger."

"Shut up," she snapped back. "Do I look like I want to talk about that? No, I don't," she answered for him. "I look like I'm working like hell to sort out this evidence so I can TRY to nail the bastard who raped Susan."

"Who's Susan?'

Sara rolled her eyes. "The VICTIM, Nick. Remember, the girl who was raped tonight? Or did you drop that out of your brain in favor of Sara-and-Grissom gossip?"

Nick winced, knowing she was right. "Sorry, hon. I'm paying attention now, ok? What have you got?" Sara ran through the conclusions she'd drawn from the hairs that had come in the rape kit and he nodded continually. "So you have three samples that are probably from the perp," he summarized. 

Sara nodded. "Yeah, hopefully. The DNA's with Greg right now." Then, before she could stop herself, she blurted, "Is Grissom still working with Meghan?"

Nick grinned. "And Caine, yeah. And who's thinking about gossip now?" Sara scowled at him and he said, "Oh come on, Sara. You have to know that there's nothing going on between them. It's not like we've even seen her since before you guys got together."

She snorted. "Ever heard of e-mail? They could still . . . oh, never mind. I don't want to talk about this, I told you."

"You started it."

"Shut UP!"

"Ok, ok," Nick said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'll go check on Greg. You just let me known when you've got your claws sheathed again." With this, he fled.

"I'll show you my claws, Nick – just say one more word!" Sara shouted after him. When he was out of sight, she set back to work on the pile of evidence in front of her. "Ok, hair done . . . fibers now."

Taking a look at the pile of envelopes containing fiber evidence, and considering the amount of time the lesser amount of hair evidence had taken her, she threw herself down on the nearest couch and groaned.


	73. Now that I can dance?

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there!" Warrick called, chasing Sara as she made her way toward the front doors. Finally getting a hold of her shoulder, he said lamely, "Uh, so how you holding up?"

"I'm fine, Warrick. You can tell Nick the same."

"Well . . . how are you getting home, Sara, if you're fighting with Grissom? You're not gonna walk or something, are you? 'Cause you know you can catch a ride with me or Nick."

"I'm almost thirty-two years old, Warrick. I think I can manage a ride home with Grissom without pitching a hissy fit."

Warrick shrugged elaborately. He knew better than to argue with that, but he really doubted that, thirty years past the terrible twos or not, Sara could make it home without making Grissom want to dump her on the side of the road.

Sara just smiled at him. She knew exactly what he was thinking – probably what everyone in the lab was thinking - and she wasn't going to try to argue with her friends about it. "See you tomorrow, War," she said, smiling sarcastically, and made her exit in an appropriately regal fashion.

When she walked into the parking lot, Grissom had both hands propped on the hood of her car and was leaning forward, obviously watching for her. His eyes were dancing with a boyish sense of anticipation at seeing her, and Sara hid a smile. She saw him before he saw her, and quickly ducked behind another car and maneuvered her way behind his back carefully.

When she was within reach, she stood up quietly and dropped a kiss on his neck. He jumped, just as she had hoped. When he spun around to face her, though, Sara could only offer a weak smile. "I'm, uh . . ."

Grissom had to admit that he was surprised that she was speaking to him at all. He knew how to handle Sara's silent treatment, and he'd even learned how to handle her when she acted ambivalent, but he'd never known Sara to act friendly like this while she was angry with him. "Morning, Sara," he finally said, deciding that was a safe enough response.

"Morning yourself," she shot back as she opened the door and lowered herself into the passenger's seat.

"Um, Sara? You want me to drive?" What was going on? Now he was really confused.

"Yeah," she said. "You let me drive yours last week, so I figure it's only fair to let you drive mine."

Mentally shrugging, Grissom decided that he had nothing else to occupy his mind while he waited for the other shoe to drop, anyway. "Ok." He plucked the keys out of her hand and started the engine. They drove in silence until they turned onto his block. "Give it up, Sara!" he finally growled. "Just yell at me and get it over with."

"I don't have anything to yell at you about."

"Are you trying to make me crash this car? Give me a heart attack? I can't deal with the suspense, Sara. Vent!"

She turned toward him. Grissom pulled away slightly, expecting a punch in the arm. When no blow came, he sat forward again, feeling rather silly. "You pitched a fit tonight when I helped Meghan, Sara. You do not forget things like that. You have the proverbial memory of a elephant, at least when it comes to my transgressions."

She shook her head. "Park, Grissom. If you want to talk, we'll do it inside." Taking her literally, Grissom screeched the car to a halt in his driveway and dragged her out of the car. "Chill, Gris!" Sara exclaimed. "I'm not going anywhere but inside, you don't need to be dragging me by the wrist."

Grissom looked down, realized he was doing exactly that, and dropped her arm. He wasn't really becoming one of those controlling men in Sara's life, was he? "Sorry."

"S'fine," she assured him. "Can we just go in before you drop dead on the driveway?"

Grissom nodded and they entered the house decorously. Just as Sara was beginning to relax, Grissom seized her hand again, pulled her down to the couch, and began kissing her. When she began to respond, he gathered all his willpower and set her away from him. 

"There. Now that I've got that out of my system, let's discuss your performance tonight."

Sara frowned ferociously at him. "It was not a performance, Grissom. It's called jealousy. Remember it? It happens when you see your significant other in a compromising position with a person of the opposite sex who isn't you."

Grissom was silent for a moment. "Oh," was all he could think of to say.

"But like I said, I have nothing to yell at you about. I overreacted about you and Meghan, I had no reason to be so mean to you or her."

Grissom blinked. "You are joking, right? Sara, my Sara, admitting that she was wrong? Not taking advantage of the opportunity to yell at me?"

Sara growled and gave him a shove in the chest, causing him to topple backwards from his sitting position. "I don't yell at you that often, Gil Grissom! In fact, I hardly yell at you at all!" She pointed a finger at him and waved it threateningly. "Here I am trying to apologize to you, and all you can do is mock me, you ass."

Grissom sighed. "Sorry again." Then a thought hit him. Only half-jokingly, he said, "I get it now. I got angry over Greg, so now you're trying to show me up by pretending to not be angry over Meghan. You're trying to make yourself calmer than you are."

"What?" Sara blinked at him, furrowing her brow. "You got angry about Greg, yes. I got angry about Meghan, yes. You eventually apologized, sort of. I just apologized. Where's the issue here? This is not a calmness competition or something."

Grissom sat up silently. Why _wasn't_ Sara angry about him flirting with Meghan Carter? The reason he'd gotten so angry when Greg kissed her was because he felt protective . . . . and, though he didn't want to admit it, because he wished her affections belonged only to him. Did she not feel protective of him? Ok, he could understand that. He was a man; women don't usually need to protect men. But did she not want his affections focused on her? That, he realized, was the ultimate question that was nagging at him.

"Grissom? Earth to Grissom, come in Grissom," Sara singsonged, pulling Grissom out of his thoughts.

He focused intently on her eyes and prepared to read her reaction. "Sara . . . do you love me?"


	74. Will you still love me tomorrow?

Sara regarded him thoughtfully, saying nothing. Grissom's heart began to pound. She was going to say no, his mind screamed. Involuntarily, he immediately began making contingency plans. What would he do if she said she didn't love him? He couldn't picture them going back to how they had been just a few weeks ago. He couldn't ignore her and he couldn't avoid her.

He was so caught up in this planning that her voice surprised him. "I don't know if I really know what love is, Gris. My whole life has been made up of me thinking I love some guy and then him dumping on me. After the third or so time I got burned, I lost whatever confidence I had in knowing what love is.

"I can tell you that I care for you more, as a person, than anyone else I've ever dated," she continued, avoiding his eyes. "And I can tell you that right now my mind is full of scenes involving me and you ten, twenty, fifty years in the future. And that I don't know what I would do if I lost you." She sighed, finally meeting his eyes. "You tell me, Grissom. Is that love?"

He tried to sound as calm as she did. "I don't know, Sara. I can't tell you that. Love is intuitive, not empirical. You just need to rely on what you feel."

"I don't KNOW what I feel!"  Sara could hear the desperation emanating from her own voice. Please, she thought, please don't let him think I'm saying no. "I'm telling you that I don't know. I don't have any intuition, I lost it a long time ago." 

"You didn't lose it. You just stopped listening to it. You're the most intuitive CSI I've ever seen, so don't sit there and tell me that you have no intuitive skills, Sara!" Grissom took a deep breath, reminding himself that she hadn't said "no" flat-out. He still had a chance. "Is this – are we – going too fast? Is that what this is about, and you don't feel ready to say it?"

"No, Grissom. You always do this – you always try to distill my problems into one simple issue you think you can fix. It doesn't work like that. It didn't with the hamburger thing, it didn't when you let that suspect insult me, and it doesn't now. Just . . . just realize that you can't know everything about my thoughts, okay? You know me the best of anyone, but when it comes to me and you, you can't see the forest for the trees."

"Then tell me this, Sara. Is 'I don't know' a yes or a no?"

"Consider it an abstention, for god's sake!" she groaned. "Why does this all have to come down to one word, anyway? I'm telling you that I love being with you, and I want to stay with you. Why can't that be good enough for you?"

"Because I've bared myself to you, and you refuse to do the same! How many times have I told you I love you? I keep saying it and saying it, and you're not giving anything in return!"

"Not giving anything?" Sara shouted. "NOT GIVING ANYTHING?? Dammit Grissom, I'm giving you everything I have to give. I'm giving you my freakin' life, here, and you're telling me you think I'm the taker in this relationship?

"Ok, so you tell me you love me. That's great, the word 'love' is pretty. What the hell does that mean to me? It's words, Grissom, not deeds. How much of what you think you're giving to me is just words? Right now I feel like it's all of it. Remember your _Macbeth_, Gris?"

"'It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.' Yes, Sara, I remember. I'm not trying to attack you, you know," Grissom said sadly. "I just wanted to know if you felt the same way about me. Maybe the words are more important to some people than others."

"I can't do that, Grissom. That's what I'm telling you. I can't just be like, 'I love you,' and everything will be wonderful. My life has never worked like that. I told five men before you that I loved them, and look what that got me: rage and no self-confidence except in my ability to do work." She leveled a serious look at him. "Do you understand what I'm saying? I won't say it until . . . until I don't know when. What I can give you, and what I'm offering you now, is everything _except_ those three words."

Grissom felt defeated. "We're coming at this from two different sides of the issue, Sara. Let's try another route. The word 'love' means something to me. To you, 'love' is just a word, an arbitrary collection of sounds. It's not as important as what a person does." 

As he said this last sentence, understanding began to really seep into his brain. He'd been looking at it from the wrong perspective. ". . . Like trying to knock you around.  I'm . . .that is, I think I understand what you're saying now, Sara." He grasped her hand lightly and stoked his fingers over it. "The word is more than meaningless. It's somehow repugnant to you, isn't it?"

"I guess you could say that. All I know is that in the past when I've said it, I always turned out to be deluded. So I refuse to do it again. Call me superstitious, but I just can't do it. What I've been telling you is that if we eliminate that word, I think that I feel as much for you as you do for me."

He still wanted to hear her say it; that was unavoidable. But once Sara was determined to not do something, the apocalypse couldn't change her mind. "Ok, Sara. I'll take that. I can never get inside your head when it comes to those other men, so I guess I have to just listen to you when you try to tell me something important like this."

Sara smiled tentatively. "What is this? Grissom, my Grissom, admitting that he doesn't know everything? Not taking an  opportunity to trivialize something important I say?"

Grissom, know she's dished him up in his own sauce, laughed and shook a fist at her. "Smartass young people. Come on, let's get some breakfast before we go to bed."


	75. Chchchchinchilla!

"Ok Susan, talk to me," Sara said under her breath as she began on the fiber evidence. There was a lot of it, but she felt confident that somewhere in this pile was evidence that would convict the man who'd done the crime.

Household carpet fibers in two different colors and shapes. Sara consulted the notes taken by the detective at the scene, but there was nothing there to tell her the color or make of the carpeting at Susan's house. Setting them aside, she jotted a note to remind herself to ask O'Reilly about it and have the victim come in for an interview if needed; one of the two types was likely to have a connection to the rapist.

From under the victim's arm, a nurse had retrieved a series of fibers that appeared to match each other. Under Sara's microscope, it became clear that they were all triangular, light blue stands of polymer. The shape of the fibers, Sara knew, suggested that these were fibers from vehicle carpeting, as did the fact that they were not textile. O'Reilly had noted that the victim had been walking when she was assaulted; Susan Akers tried to leave her car at home as often as possible. That meant that unless Susan had had her bare back pressed against a friend's car floor, it was likely that these fibers had come from the vehicle in which she had been assaulted.

As she was opening the envelope for the next set of fibers, Greg said from the doorway, "I ran the blood and then those hairs you gave me."

Sara set down the envelope and turned around, leaning back against the table. "Oh yeah? Did you come up with anything good?"

Greg grinned. "Don't I always? Well, it's probably not case-breaking tonight, but I think I came up with good stuff. First of all, your notes were almost all right. None of the unknown hairs came from the victim and all of the unknowns except the one marked 'facial hair' jibe with the hair the vic pulled from her attacker."

"That's great! So we have two clean samples, one for the vic and one for the rapist."

"Well," Greg said slowly, "except for that facial hair, which, as it turns out, isn't a facial hair at all. It's actually a . . ." He paused dramatically.

"Spit it out, Greg!"

"Patience, patience, my dear Grissom-lover. The unknown hair is actually a hair from a chinchilla."

"A what?"

"A chinchilla. Small rodent, originally found in South America, usually in the mountains. Looks like a cross between a rabbit, a squirrel, and a rat. Its fur is considered luxurious and commands a high price on foreign markets. Anyway, it shares no characteristics with human hair, so I looked it up in my handy-dandy animal hair guide," he held up the book proudly, "and lo and behold, this hair matches almost perfectly with the book's example of chinchilla. A black one, to be more specific, if you hadn't figured that out for yourself."

"Chinchilla . . ." Sara repeated. "Yeah, I've seen them. Cute little things. Ok, so there was a chinchilla hair at the scene. Does the victim have one?"

Greg shrugged and pointed a finger at her, saying jauntily, "That, my dear, is _your_ job to figure out. But I can tell you this: if you find that animal, I can try to match it." He grinned. "Seeing as how I'm the top DNA tech for the number-two lab in the country, I recently got funding for equipment that'll work for animal DNA. I can actually run the same sort of tests that I do on human DNA to get an equivalent profile."

"You're kidding! I mean, I've read about the cases solved with animal profiling, but can you really do that here if I bring you the animal?"

"Right on, my sista," Greg assured her.

"Bonus! So now we can at least narrow down the suspect list. Assuming, that is, that the vic doesn't have a chinchilla." She smiled her thanks and waved him away. "Now go away, I've got to finish these fibers." She set back to work opening the next envelope, muttering, "Rodent fur . . . pet store?"

The next set of fibers had been pulled from the victim's jeans. "Linen?" she asked herself after examining it and standing up. "Not the jeans. Not carpet. Ok, Sara, think. You've got three linen fibers stained black. What would use black linen?" She was stumped. The only common things linen was used for as far as she knew were clothing and paper money.

Sara quickly got a print-out of the view from the microscope and took it to the break room, where Warrick and Catherine were having coffee. "Hey, you guys. What's linen used for these days? I've got black-stained linen fibers from my rape."

Catherine looked toward the ceiling, thinking. "High-end clothes . . . we're talking spun linen, right, and not flax?" Sara nodded and Catherine shrugged. "Clothes, is all I can think of. And I think some canvas, too. Warrick? Any ideas?"

"Money. Red and green linen fibers go into American paper money. But you said yours are black?"

"Yeah."

"Can't be money then, at least not American. No black anywhere on our bills."

"Damn," Sara sighed. "This isn't going to get me far. I need to find something specific!"

"Go ask Grissom," Catherine suggested. "The man's a walking encyclopedia; if he doesn't know none of us do."

Sara nodded. "Yeah, I will. Is he in his office?" She was answered by shrugs. "Ok, well, thanks guys. I'll let you know if I figure it out."

"Grissom?" she said quietly as she knocked on his door a few minutes later. His office light was on, but there was no answer to her call, so she pushed the door open. "Gris? Oh." He was seated with is back to her, apparently having one of his bad-hearing moments.

She shut the door, then walked up and crouched down beside him, signing, "Is your hearing out again?"

Grissom looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. "Nope, it's back," he said out loud. "You need something?"

"What do you know about linen?"

"Uh, it depends on what you need to know, Sara. Is this about a case?"

Sara nodded. "Yep. The rape. I have three black linen fibers. Or at least, mostly black. The ends of each are grayish-white. Here's the photo," she added, handing him the digital image of the fibers. "Any ideas?"

"Hmm," he mused, pushing his glasses back up on his nose. "Clothing and money, of course, I assume you already know that." Sara nodded and he continued looking closely at the picture. Suddenly a grin split his face. "Manuscript!"

"Huh? Manuscript?"

"Medieval manuscript. Books were made of linen then. The black may be ink. Get Greg to mass-spec them and figure out what the black consists of. If it's ancient, you'll get natural ingredients. Oak, I think, and iron. And soot."

Sara's face was split by a smile. "Gris, you amaze me sometimes!" She leaned over and gave him a kiss. "Thanks, hon. I'm gonna nail this guy to the wall. I've got pet hair, which Greg tells me he can get a genetic fingerprint from, and now these book fibers. I don't think there're too many guys running around with pet chinchillas and medieval texts."

"You're probably right, Sara." He kissed her again with a little more force. "How much longer until shift's over?"

"I dunno, maybe four or five hours. I might stay late, though. I want to get all the fiber evidence cleaned up."

Grissom sighed theatrically. "Oh, the perils of being involved with a workaholic!"


	76. Danes are grrrrreat!

A hand squeezed Sara's waist. "What've you got?"

She jumped and let out a small scream. Without turning around, she said, "Geez, Grissom, could you sneak a little quieter next time? I don't think I've quite managed to have a heart attack yet."

Grissom smiled. "Sorry, Sidle, but you do it to me all the time. Now, back to the question at hand – did you get anything new on the rape case?"

"Well, Greg's taking his sweet time running the analysis on the linen fibers, so I've been calling around to pet stores and seeing who sells chinchillas. Also, I asked O'Reilly to bring in the victim so I can get some definites about what evidence has a right to be there and what doesn't." She turned to find Grissom only an inch away from her. "So I'm going to stay late. I need this woman's interview, and O'Reilly's not exactly Mr. Sensitivity, so I'm it."

Grissom nodded his approval of the plan. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Nah, I'll be ok. Go on and head home and I'll hitch a ride with one of the detectives or something." She kissed him lightly, then made shooing motions with her hands. "Go, go, I want to get this lab cleaned up before I do the interview and you're distracting me!"

Grissom refrained from commenting on the best way to distract her, and instead headed for the car. Her car, to be more specific, though he was beginning to think of both cars as "their" cars, not his or hers. Sharing things in a relationship was not something Grissom had had much experience with in his adult life, but he found it comforting to drive in Sara's car.

Sara re-packaged each piece of evidence carefully. By the time the last fiber was back in its envelope, she was out of patience. Stomping toward Greg's makeshift lab, she leaned against the doorjamb and stared daggers at his back, clearing her throat loudly.

"Oh! Hey Sara, what's up."

"My impatience level. Have you got those fibers analyzed for me? I'm about to start taking apart this lab to keep myself busy."

"Chill!" Greg said with a laugh. "They're just finishing up now." He pointed toward the mass spectrograph and, sure enough, it emitted a friendly beep and spat a page out of the printer.

"Ok, my impatient investigator, here we go. You've got wood-based tannins, ferrous oxide – better known as oxidized iron – and reduced carbon. Probably soot or charcoal. Does that help at all?" He held out the page as though it were a peace offering.

"Yeah, it does. You know," she joked, "if there weren't at least fifteen reasons why I'm not going to, I'd kiss you!"

Greg turned his cheek to her and tapped it with one finger. "Come on, you know you want to."

Sara laughed. "Fine, fine." She kissed his cheek lightly, then swatted him in the head. "Now don't work that into your dirty little thoughts, Greggo."

"Would I?" Greg asked innocently.

Sara sat down half an hour later in the observation room that abutted the interview room O'Reilly and Susan Akers were currently occupying. "We need to get some background information on your life so that we can include or exclude physical evidence we're finding," O'Reilly was telling the pale woman across the table.

"Yeah . . . ok," she said, though it was obvious that she didn't want to speak about the crime any more than she had to.

"One of our crime scene investigators is here to speak with you about that, ok? Her name's Sara, and she doesn't usually bite." O'Reilly chortled as though he were immensely funny. Susan Akers just nodded slowly.

A few seconds later, Sara pushed open the door. "Thanks, O'Reilly. I'll let you know when we're done." She herded the pudgy policeman out the door, then sat down in his seat. "Hi Susan. I'm Sara, like Detective O'Reilly told you, and I need to ask you some questions about your lifestyle and what materials you come in contact with on a regular basis. We can stop any time you want if this gets to be too much; just let me know and we can take a break or you can go home if you need to. Ok with you?"

The victim had raised her head and was examining Sara's face. "You were one of the people there that night. You had two young guys with you."

Sara nodded. "You have good eyes. The guys with me were Nick and Warrick. They're assisting on this case too, but we decided that you might be more comfortable with me. Now," she said gently, "I have a couple easy questions for you. First off, do you have any pets?"

Susan nodded. "I have a dog – a Great Dane. Ask me how much I wish I had had him with me that night . . ."

"What's his name? Can you describe him for me?"

"Well . . . his name is Ben, as in Gentle Ben – he's really a big teddy bear except when he thinks I'm being threatened, so I figured that would be a good . . . I'm sorry, I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"It's ok. Take your time, you can say anything you want. You never know what might help us."

Susan took a breath. "Ok. Um, he's a blue Dane. That means his fur is kind of a blue-gray color. He stays in the house 99 percent of the time, and I take him to the dog park for exercise, so a lot of people in my neighborhood don't even know I have a big dog." She stopped. "That's . . . that's all I can think of right now."

"Is he your only pet?" Sara prodded gently. Susan nodded and Sara continued, "That's fine, Susan. How about your job? Tell me where you work, what you do, any unusual materials you may handle."

"I'm a paralegal. Law clerk, you know. I handle a lot of paperwork, research . . . the grunt work that requires a slightly-more-than-average training level, basically."

"So you're generally behind a desk all day?"

"Yeah. I don't really handle anything unusual. Maybe some musty old law books, but 'old' when you're a lawyer is generally thirty to fifty years, so they're maybe not that old in reality. I, uh, sometimes I brought Ben, but my boss didn't like it. He told me the dog was scaring clients and that he had to stay home. So that's why Ben wasn't with me."

Sara nodded. "Great Danes are beautiful dogs. If it were me – and this is off the record, you know – if it were me, I'd just go to another firm that would let me bring him along."

Susan nodded. "Yeah, I just might. Especially after . . . that . . . I feel like I'm in danger every time I go somewhere without him."

Not knowing the best response to that – she was a physicist, after all, not a psychologist – Sara nodded sympathetically and moved on. "What kind of carpeting do you have in your home, Susan?"

The woman looked surprised at the sudden change of topic, but thought for a moment. "Garden variety, I guess. It's kind of beige-ish. And then upstairs I have the same brand in light blue that matches Ben's fur. I did it like that on purpose, it's funny to see him try to blend his huge body into the carpet."

That accounted for both colors of carpet fiber they'd found, at least for now. "Could you bring me samples of both types of carpeting tomorrow, Susan? Just pull a few threads out of each and put them in separate plastic bags." 

Susan agreed readily, though she looked a little confused at why Sara would want her carpeting. Sara checked her notes. Only one more question on the fibers. "What about your car carpeting, or the carpeting of any cars you ride in a lot?"

"Gray," was the immediate answer. "I hate dark upholstery, so I always get gray seats and carpet. Other cars, hmm. Sometimes I catch a ride into the city with my friend Sam. Samantha, not Samuel," she clarified. "Her car has red carpet. Burgundy, I'd say, actually."

"Would there have been any reason for your bare back to recently come in contact with your car's carpeting or Samantha's?"

"No." Susan shook her head definitively. "I always wear actual shirts, not tank tops, so there wouldn't be any reason for my back to touch any of the car upholstery, especially the carpeting on the floor."

"Ok," Sara said. "That's all the information I need from you right now. Thank you for coming; I know how hard it must be to talk about this. But I'll tell you, Susan, you've got guts. I've never gotten a note demanding that I capture the criminal along with the evidence from a victim. Keep that attitude and you're well on your way to healing." She reached out and squeezed Susan's hand reassuringly, then left the room.

Once she was clear of the victim's view, she leaned against a wall and shot her fist up in the air. "Yes! Whoever you are, you are so getting nailed. I'm gonna get you and you're never going to do this again."


	77. Me and a gun, and a man on my back

Sara looked around the parking lot irritably. O'Reilly had offered to drive her home, but his car was parked a block away. She tapped her foot impatiently while she waited for him, mentally going over the evidence she's seen that day.

Suddenly an arm was around her throat. "Don't turn around, bitch. I'm givin' you a warning: leave the bitch with the dog's case alone or you're both gonna get hurt bad." 

He was breathing hard in her ear, a repulsive sound. She knew the man meant to terrify her, but Sara wasn't afraid, she was just majorly pissed off. Sinking her nails into his arm, she crunched the heel of her boot down onto his instep. The man yelped and loosened his hold on her neck. Taking advantage of this, she shot an elbow back into his solar plexus, making her attacker drop his arm entirely. "You fucking idiot!" she yelled, then kneed him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his groin.

Being herself, Sara refused to flee. Instead she stood, panting slightly, and watched the man closely, waiting for him to make another move at her. When he didn't, she took the opportunity to grab hold of the wool ski mask he wore and jerk it off. Before she could get a good look at him, though, the man roared out of his kneeling position, trying to grab her again. 

When she slipped out of his grasp, he threw a punch, now more concerned with her not seeing his face than with delivering his warning. The flying fist glanced off Sara's cheek as she turned away from it. Truly furious now, Sara got in a blow of her own at his nose, hearing a satisfying crunch when she connected with it. 

He'd had enough, it seemed. Sara's attacker turned and ran for the bushes behind the building. She stood still for a minute catching her breath and debating whether she should go after him. The decision was taken out of her hands when O'Reilly pulled his car up in front of her. "Jesus, Sara, what the hell happened to you?"

"I'm fine. The rapist just tried his damndest to scare me off. I beat him up instead."

The detective gaped at her. "The rapist? The one we're after?" Sara nodded and O'Reilly's face began to turn red. "And you didn't yell for me? Are you STUPID, Sidle? He could have had a gun!" He glared at her, then sighed. "Which way?"

"Toward the back. He skirted the bushes. He's got red hair, by the way, and I scratched him."

"Well go get your ass inside so someone else can process you!" he said, then hurried off in the direction Sara had indicated.

Ecklie sneered when he saw Sara. "What happened to_ you_?"

"A rapist came after me," she said flatly. "Can we just do this, please?" She held out her hands, "I scratched him, so I might have DNA."

Ecklie blinked. He hadn't been expecting to hear that Sara had truly been attacked, of all things. He'd been thinking along the lines of a catfight with Catherine Willows. "A suspect? Are you kidding?"

"No. Please, just get started, I want to go home."

"I'm calling Grissom," was the day supervisor's response. "I'm not processing you without him here, you know he'll flip out if I or any of my people touch you."

"Don't!" Sara said, but Ecklie was already on the phone.

"Hello Gil. I have something you might be interested in seeing down at CSI. Seems that rapist your team's been after? Well he's been after your team too." Sara could hear Grissom's raised voice even though the phone was pressed to Ecklie's ear. "Why don't you just come down and find out, Gil? Yes, Sara's here with me. Move, Grissom, I'm not dealing with your case by myself." He hung up.

"Geez, Ecklie, could you have handled that any worse?" Sara asked, annoyed at how the man had toyed with Grissom.

"There's a reason, Sidle. If I'd told him you were hurt he'd be speeding his way down here and probably get himself killed on the way."

Sara was forced to admit he was right, but she didn't like it. "I'm not hurt, anyway. I'm fine," she said, then subsided. Slumping against the wall, she counted the minutes until Grissom arrived.

Exactly ten minutes later, Grissom banged open the door to Ecklie's office. "What the hell's going on, Conrad?"

Ecklie shrugged and pointed across the room to where Sara was perched on a chair. "Ask her, I'm just the innocent bystander."

"Would you guys stop it? This is not the end of the world. A suspect tried to attack one of us, this is nothing new. Why are you acting like someone just got killed?"

Grissom grew still. " 'Tried to attack one of us,' Sara? And exactly who would that be?" He scowled at her. "Come here." Sara stood up and approached him, back stiff. Grissom took a close look at her. "You have a black eye and you're bleeding. What did you DO, Sara!"

"I didn't 'do' anything, Grissom. I was waiting for O'Reilly to pull up and the guy grabbed me. I scared him off. That's it. The only reason I'm here is so Ecklie could process me, but he refused."

Grissom sank down in a chair. "You might feel fine, but I certainly don't. I knew I shouldn't have left you here!" He motioned her toward him and took hold of her face gently. "Did he hit you hard?"

"He barely even tapped me. Stop it, Gris. I'm fine, honestly. Can we PLEASE just get started?" She wiped the back of her hand at the blood on her face. "The blood isn't mine. I think I broke his nose. The blood probably came from there."

O'Reilly appeared in the doorway along with one of Ecklie's team. "He was gone by the time I got there, Sara. I got the ski mask he dropped, though." He looked around the room. "Oh, hi Grissom. Good thing you're here."

Ecklie's CSI, named Jared, was visually examining Sara from where he stood. "Are you hurt, Sidle?"

"No, for the five-hundredth time!" she exclaimed. "I just want someone to process me, for god's sake." She stool up and walked to the door. "Let's go, Jared. Grissom, O'Reilly, we'll be back in a little while." The young man shrugged and followed Sara out the door.

Sara felt strangely removed from the situation as Jared swabbed the blood off of her hands and face, carefully scraped under her fingernails, and helped her exchange her clothes for a pair of department sweats. "Ok Sara, I'm done," he told her. "You might want to go get yourself checked out, though, just to make sure he didn't crack your cheekbone or anything. But you knew that," he chuckled nervously. He went off to distribute the evidence to the various parts of the lab that would use them.

Sara returned to Ecklie's office, where the three older men were in what looked like a deep conversation. "O'Reilly? You ready to get started with the interview?" she asked. The detective, still slightly red in the face, nodded and led her away again.

Grissom watched them leave and sank his head into his hands. He would die young if Sara kept this up.


	78. If tomorrow never comes

"Calm down, Gris! I keep telling you, I knocked the shit out of him and he barely hit me with the end of a punch. I know how to fight, I wasn't in any danger." Sara sat back against their couch, waving a hand dismissively.

"Not in any danger? Have you finally lost whatever sanity you had left, Sara? You were _lucky_, not 'not in danger'. What if the man had had a gun? My god, Sara, I'd be arranging your funeral right now instead fixing your breakfast." The stark look on his face told Sara that it had been a very real thought of his.

"I'm not gonna die, Gil. He didn't want to kill me, anyway, so even if he'd had a gun he probably would have just winged my arm or something to get me off him."

Grissom leaned over the counter that divided his living room and his kitchen and pressed the heels on his hands into his eyes. When he took them away and opened his eyes, he looked into hers for the first time since they'd left CSI. His usually clear blue eyes were bloodshot and hooded. "Would you really take that chance, Sara? Do you feel confident enough to risk your life betting that he wouldn't shoot to kill?"

Sara was quiet, knowing Grissom was right. "No," she finally said. "I wouldn't. I guess I'm just not used to having someone else who would really be affected if he had hurt me. When you're alone, then you can do what you think is best. You know how all the single police officers volunteer for the most dangerous jobs. I have the same mindset. Or had, I guess."

Grissom ran a hand through his hair. "Well next time you decide to try to get yourself killed, think of me, ok? Maybe you won't mind your being dead, but I sure as hell will. You're giving me gray hair, Sara."

Sara managed a smile. "Your hair is gray already, Gris. Don't blame that on me. And I'm sorry about this afternoon, ok? It was instinct, and it's gonna take a while for me to change that."

"What if we have children, Sara? You can't put yourself in danger like this." The words flew out of his mouth, completely bypassing his brain. Grissom's eyes registered surprise and embarrassment when he realized what he had just said.

Sara's mouth hung open. "Children . . . kids?" Her eyes widened. "I didn't . . . I mean, I haven't . . . that wasn't even crossing my mind, Gris. I was more worried about leaving you alone."

"Forget I said that, Sara. I don't know where it came from. I didn't mean . . . um, well I did mean . . .  but not . . ." He stopped, realizing that he had no idea what he was trying to say.

"There are always risks in this job," Sara said in an attempt to change the subject. "I can't avoid them, you can't avoid them. None of us can. Ok, maybe I could have handled the guy better, but there was nothing I could have done differently that would have made him not come after me."

"You could have been working a different case. If it had been Nick, Warrick, or me out there, we could have defended ourselves. You're putting yourself in a lose-lose situation."

"Excuse me? What did you say, Grissom? Did you just tell me that I can't defend myself and that I should let one of the big, strong men do the hard jobs? Well why don't you go ask that man if I can defend myself. I caught him by surprise _because_ I'm female. If he had come after one of you, he would have been prepared for a fight and probably _would_ have brought a gun. And then one of you could have been killed." 

She jerked her hair back angrily and knotted it into a bun to get it out of her face. "And I seem to recall that out of all of us, me and Warrick are the only ones who haven't had a suspect get the drop on them. You, Catherine, Nick – you're the three who keep getting in trouble, not me."

Grissom made throttling motions with his hands, wishing vaguely that Sara's neck were within reach. "Well, Nick and I came out of it ok both times. Catherine just had a scratch. You're different."

"A scratch, Gris? She was bleeding like a stuck pig. And I'm not different. The only difference is that you have a vested interest in me. You need to get over that. Not over me, of course, but over this desire you seem to have to lock me in a closet and go slay the dragons all by yourself."

"I don't want to . . ." He stopped, reconsidering. "Ok, I do want to lock you at home sometimes to protect you from yourself. There's nothing wrong with that. Other than your luck with suspects, you get yourself into more scrapes than anyone I know. And what about that time you would have killed that man who killed his wife if I hadn't held you back?"

"We're going in circles, Grissom. You just gave an example of how I do know how to fight against a man."

Grissom sighed heavily. "Listen, Sara . . . you know how much I love you. Or how attached to you I am, if you don't want to hear 'love'. If you died or got hurt on the job, it would be my fault for putting you on the case that got you that way. Then not only would I have to deal with the professional guilt, but I'd have to deal with losing someone who's more important to me than anyone I've ever known."

Sara walked to the counter and leaned on it across from Grissom. Her face was an inch from his as she spoke. "I'm not going to die. I have no plans to die until I'm at least ninety. You don't need to worry about me when it comes to this stuff. I'm tough. You can't go to school in Boston and not be; you know what that area is like once you step off campus."

She took his face between her hands and repeated, "I. Am. Not. Going. To. Die."  Grissom didn't respond, just looked at her, and she dropped her hands back to the counter, laying her head down on one arm. She heaved a sigh. "That's my argument, Gris. If you're not convinced, then there's nothing I can say to change your mind. _Trust_ me, please."

Grissom didn't know what to say. Of course he trusted her, but trust had nothing to do with the fact that Sara had no idea how quickly things happen when you're in danger. She could be shot before she could even react. If Sara died while she was working, he didn't know if he would ever be able to do the job again, knowing how it had claimed her.

"I believe you, Sara, but I can't lose the protectiveness. I'll try to, I don't know, tone it down. But I will always worry about you, and there's nothing either of us can do about that. Call me selfish, but I don't want my house to ever be empty again."


	79. Hello, Clarice

"Yes, Sara, I'm still working on Meghan's moth. And no, I'm not going to have sex with her on my desk."

Sara gasped and dug a finger into his side, laughing when he swerved the car slightly to the right in surprise. "Grissom! All I asked was whether you'd figured it out yet. Geez, sex on your desk? I'd hope that if that happened, it would involve me and not some other girl."

Grissom laughed. "But it's so fun to watch your face get red like that! And if you're going to be beating up suspects regularly now, you'll have to practice those weak punches."

"Hah," she snorted. "That was a dig, not a punch. You can't handle my punches, boss."

Grissom was saved from having to respond by the last stoplight before CSI turning green. He hit the gas just a little harder than necessary and made the turn into the parking lot. "Game face on now, Sara. No throwing yourself at me during shift."

"I hate you!" she laughed. "And how about you focus on figuring out the moth that _I_ already figured out rather than undressing me with your eyes every time you see me." She started walking toward the building, still laughing. 

Grissom grabbed her hand and pulled her back toward him. When Sara gave him a curious look, he smiled. "Okay, smartass, what species?"

"I don't know the Latin name, but it's a Death's Head. Have you never seen _Silence of the Lambs_?" Grissom didn't respond, only chuckled and gave her a gentle shove toward the doors.

They split up inside. "I really have to start tracing those furry things and linen books, Gris. I'll see you in a little while."

Grissom nodded. "Fine. I've got to go work with Meghan's new pet. On my desk," he added evilly.

"Oooh, you're gonna pay for that!" She turned with a flip of her hair and headed for the lab she'd commandeered yesterday. 

An hour later, she was no closer to finding the mysterious redhead who owned both a chinchilla and old texts. Muttering curses, Sara wandered down the hall toward the break room.

"If Nick were to sleep with Warrick, I'd wonder what the hell they were on," came from just inside the doorway as she walked up to it. What was going ON in there?  She quietly took up a place against the doorframe, just behind Catherine and the redheaded man – the one who _wasn't_ a criminal – and listened avidly. Only Grissom noticed her, and he acknowledged her presence with just a flicker of his eyes.

"Jesus, Cath. Don't do that," said Warrick in a shocked voice.

Catherine chucked a thumb over her shoulder at Horatio. "It's not nice to leave guests wandering around, Meg."

"Sorry about that," Meghan apologized with no remorse. "So, what's in it, Gris?" 

Grissom gave his friend a 'shut-up for five seconds and I'll tell you' glare. Once everyone was quiet, he spoke. "It's a moth." 

Meghan groaned. "Come on, Gris, I know that! What type?" 

Grissom's patented Evil Glare made a grand appearance again. "I wasn't finished. What you have here is a really nice specimen." Grissom decided not to mess around once he caught sight of Meg's hand heading in the general direction of her gun. "Let's see if you had a life in the early nineties. Here we have something called the Acherontia Styx. Common name and movie it appeared in?" There was total silence for a long moment. "Hmm? Nobody?"

Time to speak up, Sara thought with a grin. Grissom, bless his evil heart, was giving her an opportunity to grandstand. "Death's Head Moth. Silence of the Lambs." Meghan and Warrick both turned around, surprised to hear her voice. "What?" Sara asked indignantly. "I happen to like Silence of the Lambs." 

Meg looked up from the specimen jar on Grissom's desk and caught the tail end of a sentence Grissom was signing to Sara. "--watch it every weekend." 

She turned back to Sara and signed to her. "What's this about watching it every weekend?" The expression on Sara's face could only be described as priceless. Everyone barely managed to suppress the chuckles.

"How do you know sign language?" Sara demanded, feeling a pang of annoyance that she was no longer the only one Grissom could talk to like this.

"Do the words 'deaf niece' ring a bell?" 

Warrick quickly stepped in and cut off Sara's reply, hoping to diffuse any potential explosions. He didn't know what strange thoughts were going through his coworker's brown head, but he knew that Meg looked pissed off at the moment. "That's right. I forgot about Chelsea. How's she doing?" 

Meghan smiled at the mention of her niece. "She's fine. Titi and I taught her how to say her name."

"Whoa, man. Kudos to Saint Meghan. Anyways, I've got that linen fiber to process, and I need Cath's help on that. Let's go," Warrick said lightly, motioning to his partner. Catherine and Warrick made a quick exit before anyone could tell them Greg had already processed the fibers an hour ago. 

With a slight smile, Grissom picked up right on cue, turning to Horatio. "Let's go write this up. You can use my office."  

With everyone clear of the room, Meghan and Sara were free to talk. "Sara?"

"Yeah?" 

Sara took a seat at the head of the table, amused that she was taking Grissom's usual place.  Meghan noticed the small smile and raised an eyebrow. "What's going on with you and Gris?"

Sara looked up in surprise from her study of the papers a rather disorganized Grissom had left. "What makes you think there's something going on with me and Grissom?" 

"Um, maybe the fact that when I left two years ago, you guys were ignoring each other, and then I come back, hug him, and you get all hot and bothered over it and Warrick and Nick have to save my ass by practically dragging you out of the room. That tells me something's going on." 

Sara blushed slightly pink. Damn, she hadn't known they were quite _that_ obvious. "You're perceptive," she said, stalling.

"Criminal psychologists and profilers generally are." A rather long, awkward silence followed. 

Sara looked down at her hands, trying to think of an appropriate response. Oh, hell, why not tell the woman. It wasn't like it her relationship with Grissom was big news these days, and Meghan was her friend, at least while Sara wasn't in a jealous mood. "We're, um, we're living together." 

Meghan couldn't keep the smile off her face, displaying her pleasure at this revelation.  "Surprise, surprise." It came out more sarcastically than intended, but it was meant with utmost affection and friendship. "Anything good happened that I might want to know about?" Meghan added quickly, aware that Sara wasn't sure whether she meant it as a compliment or not.

Deciding that Meghan couldn't have meant any harm, Sara grinned wickedly. "Only if you tell me what's going on between you and the Miami dude." 

Meghan sighed in slight irritation."What is it with you people? Nick and Warrick asked the exact same question earlier. Nothing is going on." There was a slight pause before she continued. "Except………" 

Sara leaned forward eagerly. Was there another professional pair getting it on in this office? "What? Except what?" 

Meghan was giggling uncontrollably. It took a few seconds before she could control herself enough to speak. "Spiffy shoes." Another severe giggle fit hit Meghan, and Sara tried, and failed, to hold in her own amusement. They both were soon in tears.

"Spiffy shoes? What the hell?" Sara asked when she could catch her breath.

"Lemme tell you the whole story. Last night, we checked into the hotel, I unpack with lightning speed, as usual, and I go into his room. We've got the adjoined rooms and all that crap. So anyway, I'm sitting on the bed, going over the case file while he unpacks, and he puts this super-shiny pair of shoes on the bed. And, of course, being me, I can't resist picking one up."

"Because you are woman, and women like shiny things."

"Really! It's a scientific fact, too. Women, birds, cats and ferrets are all attracted to shiny things. Anyways, this shoe is so damned shiny that you can see yourself in it, and I tell him that. So we get into this really long discussion about the female affinity for shiny things, and finally I say 'So, is that the secret of the rich men, then? They all have nice manners, polite smiles, lots of money, and shiny, spiffy footwear?' and we both just cracked up at that." Sara allowed herself a few more giggles.

"You are such a dork sometimes, Meg."

"I know. Especially after what happened later." 

Sara's eyes widened slightly. "Really?" 

Meghan blushed slightly. "Not that, you pervert."

"I wasn't talking about that."  Yeah right. Play innocent, Sidle. "What happened?"

"Okay………I hadn't slept in about two days, and I fell asleep. On his bed." 

A slightly befuddled look crossed Sara's face at this point. Well duh, she fell asleep in Grissom's bed every night. "And this is strange why?" 

Meghan more than slightly blushed before continuing. "Because I woke up the next morning and I was in his bed, right next to him. And we were all, you know………" Meghan twined her fingers around each other and held them up in demonstration. 

Aha. They were a week or two behind her and Grissom, it seemed. Amazing how this stuff seemed to go on a schedule. She grinned. "Oh. I see. And so then what happened?"

"I figured out where the hell I was, and got out of there."

"No romantic action?" 

Meghan shook her head. "None whatsoever. But thinking about it now, I just realized something. You remember how I would have these nightmares every once in a while that would just scare the holy hell out of me?" Sara nodded, remembering the many times Meghan had come in, shaken from a bad dream. "Well, they've gotten to the point where they're coming every night, which is part of the reason I'm staying later and later. I'm afraid to go to sleep. But that's not my point. Thing is, last night was the first night in six months I haven't had a bad dream." 

There was complete and total silence for several seconds while Sara processed this new information. She'd known Meghan had occasional nightmares, but she didn't think it was so serious that they came every night. "You know, that probably means something," she said, the hint broad in her voice.

Meghan ran a hand through her hair tiredly. "I know. Probably means I'm going insane. I've been thinking about it for a while. I can't explain it. There's no clinical explanation, anyway."

"Then stop looking for a clinical explanation, Meg. In fact, stop looking for one at all. It'll come. Just be patient."

"Patience is a virtue that I do _not_ have. Anyway, changing the subject…wanna go harass Nick a bit? It'll take my mind off going insane, at least for now." 

Sara smiled widely. If there was one thing she and Meghan shared a liking for, it was knocking around the guys. She stood up and walked towards the door. "If we get Cath, we can triple-team them." 

They shared a conspiratorial smile as they walked out of the room.    


	80. Hangin by a moment

Grissom softly closed the door behind him and watched as Sara, unaware of his presence, pounded a fist on the table and spat out a curse. "There has got to be ONE pet store in Las Vegas that stocks black chinchillas! Where the hell did you come from, you damn little rodent?"

Grissom broke in at this point, figuring he'd stop her before she got into a whole conversation with this imaginary furball. "I don't think they generally teach chinchillas either telepathy or English, honey, sorry."

"Don't do that," she over her shoulder as his voice surprised her. "You're getting worse than me. And I wasn't talking to the thing, technically. Anyway, wouldn't you be a little frustrated if you'd called every pet store in Vegas and gotten diddly-squat?"

"I take it you're staying late again." He didn't add questioning intonation; it wasn't really a question. Of course she was staying late, and of course he was staying with her after what happened yesterday.

Sara slapped down the photograph she'd been holding. "Damn right, and you are too. I need someone to start doing cold calls to libraries, bookstores . . . anything that'd have old books."

Not that he was unwilling, but this wasn't procedure. "You have two more CSIs working this case with you, Sara. Why not ask one of them, like you're supposed to?"

"Hah." She raised a fist and started ticking off reasons on her fingers. "One, Warrick's deep into Catherine's case now and has no clue what I've been doing for the past day or so. Two, Nick refuses to be alone with the two of us in the fear that we'll double-geek him or something. Three," she finished with a small smile, "you're more fun to have detention with."

"You've got me convinced," Grissom laughed. "Where do I start . . . oof!" A phone book hit him square in the chest.

"You're the genius in this pairing, Gris. Figure it out for yourself. I'm too concerned with where this damned animal is. I'm gonna call Susan and ask if she knows any chinchilla owners."

"Susan?" Grissom said warily. "Your victim?"

"Yeah."

"Sara, you know better than to get so involved that you get on a first-name basis with a victim. For your own benefit, stick with 'the victim' or 'Susan Akers,' not 'Susan'."

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Either way, I still want to nail this guy, not the least for trying to mess me up." She gave him a look that said 'just try to stop me' and picked up the phone. Consulting a page in the folder in front of her, she dialed what was presumably the victim's number. Grissom listened closely.

"Hi, may I speak to Susan Akers please?" A pause. "Sara Sidle From the Las Vegas Crime Lab." A longer pause. "Hi Susan, this is Sara Sidle. I talked to you the other day? Uh-huh, right. Well I just have two more questions for you. Do you know anyone who owns or sells chinchillas, particularly uncommonly colored ones?" Her eyes widened. "Uh-huh, ok." She was scribbling madly on a sheet of scrap paper. "Do you have an address or phone number? Thanks. Next, do you know of anyone who owns, sells, or works near old – I'm talking medieval – books?" Sara's face fell. "Ok, well, thank you for your help. I'll let you know if we find anything new." She said goodbye and hung up.

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Good investigative technique, Sidle. You sound like you're gossiping at the coffee shop, not investigating a case."

"Shut up. I got the results, didn't I? She knows someone who's got chinchillas. Well, sort of knows him. He's her friend's boyfriend."

"But no luck with the books?"

"She couldn't think of anyone who'd have a reason to handle old books." Closing her eyes for a second, Sara collected her thoughts. "So I'll have to talk to the boyfriend today, I guess. Maybe he knows something about the book."

"Why don't you hold off on that until tonight, Sara. I don't want you going anywhere related to this case without O'Reilly. I know, I know," he said, holding up a hand to shush her, "You can take care of yourself. No one knows that better than me. But you _cannot_ dodge speeding bullets, therefore you will make sure you always have an officer with you when you question these suspects."

Sara scowled. "I take it that that's a 'boss' order, and not a 'Grissom' order?" Grissom nodded and she growled. "One day, bugman . . . one day I'm gonna find a way to boss _you_ around."

"Uh, Sara? You already have one of those. It's called 'home,' have you noticed? You know, that place where you tell me that I should sleep less, and that I shouldn't eat meat? I think that counts. Consider it a perk of dating your boss."

"I don't boss you around that much at home, "she said indignantly. "Only in . . . uh . . ." She flushed slightly. "You know."

Grissom gaped. "Are you being _squeamish_, Sara? You??"

"Hey, don't knock it. You're lucky I didn't spill all the dirty details to Meg." She grinned and wiggled her eyebrows. "You know how we girls get."

"Sara! What did you tell her about us – me?"

She smiled mysteriously. "Don't you wish you knew. You'll just have to be nice to me from now on and hope it's good enough to keep my mouth shut."

Grissom sat down on the edge of the table and pulled her toward him. "You wouldn't! You're as private as I am." His hands clasped her waist as he drew her closer. "You wouldn't," he said again. "Would you?"

"Let's just say we compared notes about bed-sharing." She grinned. "Don't you dare tell anyone else, but Meghan and Horatio are closer than everyone thinks. Remember how we spent, like, a week sleeping together before we even decided we had a relationship? Well that's what happened to them last night."

"So you _didn't_ tell her about us."

"No, idiot, I didn't. I'm keeping you to myself, are you nuts? I'm not gonna go around broadcasting any of your particular talents in that area. You know, though," she added, a slow, teasing, smile spread across her face, "Horatio's older than Meghan. I wonder how she feels about that. After all, who'd want to sleep with the old, moldy scientist type anyway?"

Grissom mock-gasped and pulled her closer until he had her in a bear hug. "You ungrateful little . . . you know you're in love with the old, moldy scientist type."

Sara looked up at him from her slightly squashed position against his chest and nodded. "Well, yeah." She looked down, kissed his chest through his shirt, and looked up again. "I gave up my apartment today."


	81. Who let the dogs out?

Grissom set Sara away from him, trying to hide the incredulous look on his face. "You did what?"

"I gave up my apartment." She froze, suddenly apprehensive. "Did you not want me to? Do you not want, uh . . ."

"No! No, no, no, Sara this is great. You just took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting you to take this step considering how much we've been fighting lately."  He bit his tongue, realizing that that sounded horrible. "I mean I'm just, uh, pleased that you trust me enough to do that."

Sara crossed her arms in front of her and looked at him curiously. "It was never an issue of trusting you, Gris. I've always trusted you. I guess it was a matter of trusting me. You know, trusting my ability to pick a winner this time," she said with a grin.

She sighed. "Fighting happens. Especially considering who we're talking about. If you really want to know what decided me, I guess it was actually the fighting itself. I've never had a relationship before where we fight like cats and dogs, then we make up, and we still love each other as much as we did before the fight. And you fight fair, Gil, unlike some others."

Wordlessly, he pulled her into a hug and kissed her hair. "Thank you." 

Sara relaxed against him, smiling into his shoulder. What she was feeling right now was the closest to heaven she'd ever expected to get. "Grissom?"

"Yeah," he said, then kissed her ear.

"Two things. One, we're going to have to move the rest of my stuff into your house today."

"Our house," he mumbled, correcting her.

Sara giggled. "Yeah, I guess it is our house now. But, uh, Gris. Second?"

"Mmm."

"We're at work. And Brass is staring at us through the window and he looks like he's taking notes."

Grissom's head shot up and he turned around to see if Sara was telling the truth. Jim Brass was, indeed, standing outside the window, smiling widely and waving with one hand, holding a notebook with the other. "Jim!" he yelled, trying to sound threatening.

Brass pushed open the door, laughing so hard he could barely stand up. "Sor . . . sorry guys. You're just so cute, I thought I'd take notes so I could tell the guys tomorrow." He grabbed his stomach and howled with laughter at the looks on the two faces in front of him. "What? You are!"

Sra couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah, well, I'll take that as a compliment. And you know what your reward is for saying it?"

Brass started backing away, a nervous look on his face. "Uh . . . I don't need a reward." Another giggle escaped. "Nope, I do this just for the pleasure of it." He made for the door with the sound of Grissom's laughter following him.

Sara caught him just outside the doorway. "Nothing bad, Brass, geez. I was just gonna ask you if you want to help me move the rest of my stuff into Grissom's house this afternoon."

Brass stopped laughing and gave her an appraising look. "The rest, huh? You two finally stopped fighting it?" Sara nodded and he gave her shoulder a paternal squeeze. "So when's the wedding?"

"Brass!"

"Kidding, at least for now. What time do you want me? And I'll need directions to your apartment."

Sara nodded and scribbled them down on a piece of paper. "Meet us there around noon, ok?" She gave Brass a big, gap-toothed grin, and went back into the evidence room.

"So," Grissom said when they were alone again. "Can I go home now? This beautiful woman I'm living with has been cracking the whip all day, she's completely tired me out . . ."

"If this room had blinds, Gil Grissom," she smirked, "I'd show you what 'tired out' _really_ means." She flicked an imaginary piece of dust from her blouse and walked out. Grissom was a step behind her, admiring her rear.

He moaned loudly about his old bones – all of them, one-by-one – all the way back to the entrance of the building, but when they reached the parking lot, his face took on a sober look. He began scanning the surrounding area, on the lookout for any dangerous characters.

"Chill, Gris. I _told_ you, he's scared of me now, he won't come back."

He turned to her, all seriousness now. "Don't, Sara. I'm just incredibly glad that you're living with me, because if you weren't I'd be terrified that he'd come after you in your apartment. He's an anger-retaliation rapist, you know, and that means he feels like he needs to prove he's better than you." He nodded firmly. "I'm not letting go of you while we sleep – or any other time – until this guy is caught."

"I won't argue," she said in an attempt at humor. "Feel free to keep your hands on me at all times. But Grissom, I do know how to . . ."

". . . defend yourself, I know, I know. Let me pretend to wear the pants in this relationship occasionally, huh? I like to think I can protect the fair damsel."

Sara grinned. "You can wear whatever you want, as long as I can take it off you."

"Just get in the car, Sidle," he said sternly. "Hey, do you want to invite the rest of the team over to help again today? How much stuff do you have?"

Sara shrugged. "Not too much. The furniture, basically, and all my kitchen appliances . . . bathroom fixtures . . . the rest of my clothes . . . all my journals."

Grissom gaped. "In other words, everything you own."

"Well, no. I can give away the rugs. And, um . . . a few of my knickknacks."

He slumped back against his seat. "Sara, the house isn't that big – how much stuff do you _have_? I mean, furniture? I have furniture."

"No way, bugman. I want my recliner." She thought for a second. "Gris?" she asked as he swung the car into the driveway.

Uh-oh. He unbuckled his seatbelt, ready to bolt. "What now?"

"How would you feel about getting a dog?"

He only looked at her. "Inside, Sidle. We're not discussing a pet on the front lawn."

Sara shrugged and followed him inside. "I'm serious. Do you like dogs?"

"Can we please worry about fitting all your stuff into my house before we start adding other living things to the mix?"

"I guess," she said. "It's just that, you know, Susan has a dog she was telling me about, and I kind of miss having pets. I haven't had anything bigger than a goldfish since I went away to college."

Grissom ignored her blatant reference to a victim. "I don't think so, Sara. We both work long hours, and I don't think we'd really have time to train a dog. They need a lot of attention, and I just don't think . . ."

He was silenced when Sara kissed him gently. She smiled against his lips, then whispered, "I'll trade you the furniture for the dog."

Grissom harrumphed.


	82. Love bites

Nick looked from Grissom to Sara, mouth hanging open. He was getting a really strong sense of déjà vu watching them.

"Eat!"

"I already ate, Grissom! I'm fine!"

He sighed. Apparently it fell to him every time they did this. "Guys, stop," he said, waving a hand between them. "There's pizza on the way and you can stuff each other to your hearts' content. In the meantime, can we actually try to accomplish something here?"

Warrick elbowed Catherine in the ribs, laughing. "Is it fifty years yet? 'Cause man, they're still going."

Catherine snorted and tossed a stuffed bear at his head. "Leave 'em alone, War. Where else would we be provided with 'entertainment to move by'?" She gave his butt a light slap and started to walk past him, chuckling.

Warrick grabbed her around the waist and hauled her over his shoulder, kicking and screaming. Heading into Sara's bedroom, he said over his shoulder, "We'll be back in a few minutes, guys. Catherine just needs to. . . do something!"

"Or some_one_," Nick muttered as they heard the door slam.

Sara and Grissom both stopped mid-shout and looked at each other, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing. "God, am I glad I'm not going to be sleeping on that bed anymore," said Sara, slewing her eyes toward the bedroom door Warrick had just shut.

Grissom shook his head in disbelief. Was the sexual tension contagious? He looked at Nick, expecting for a moment to see the younger man kissing Brass or something. Nothing of the sort, of course, and he contented himself with striding toward the bedroom and banging on the door. "We're not saving you guys any pizza!" he hollered. If that didn't get them out, nothing would.

Within seconds, the bedroom door opened. Catherine was tugging at her shirt, while Warrick was trying to press his hair back into something resembling a normal shape. "Geez, can't have any fun around here with you two married folks," he pouted. He was immediately hit by the same teddy bear that Catherine had thrown, only this time it stung, having been launched by Sara's stronger arm.

"I'll show you 'married'!" she yelled at him, then laughed. "Or not." She turned to Grissom, smiling widely. "We should have everyone over more often, I forgot how much fun it can be."

"Uh-uh," Grissom said, shaking his head violently. "Not in my townhouse. They break things. Think how traumatized Fluffy would be!"

Sara could only laugh. Trying to calm herself down, she picked up a pile of towels that were waiting to go out to her car and headed for the door. Pulling it open, she came face-to-face with a pimple-faced teenager wearing a Domino's cap and bearing three boxes of fragrant pizza. "You can go on in," she told the boy. "Ask the guy with the gray hair to pay you."

"I heard that!" Grissom yelled. "I'll have you know it's not completely gray. Some days there's brown in it!"

Nick shook his head, laughing. "Give it up, Gris. You're old, face it. You're just lucky Sara has a thing for old guys," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Grissom stared at him for a moment. "Hey, who can fire who here?" he reminded Nick, and was rewarded with seeing the grin wiped off Nick's face, if only for a moment. Sighing, he dug in his pocket and handed the delivery boy thirty dollars while Warrick relieved the delivery boy of his load.

"Sara!" Nick yelled. "If you don't get in here, I'm eating your share!"

"Gris-som!" Sara yelled through the door in response. "You better protect my pizza, or there's going to be two couples in here denied alone-time!"

"Ouch," Grissom chuckled. "You heard the girl. Hand over the pizza and no one gets hurt."

Nick cracked an imaginary whip, which set him and Warrick to laughing again. "Whoop-sch! Go Sara go!"

Catherine raised an eyebrow coolly. "Hey, she's got the right idea. I wouldn't laugh if I were you," she told Warrick pointedly. "A man's got to protect his woman's pizza or he's useless."

Warrick gave her a wide-eyed look and snapped up a box of pizza, hugging it to his chest. "Mine!" he told Nick, who was still laughing too hard to talk.

Sara appeared next to the group and patted Grissom on the head. "Good boy." Seeing his scowl, she grinned. "Now see, if we had a dog I would be saying that to it instead of you."

"You're getting a dog?" Nick asked excitedly. "What kind?"

Sara clapped a hand over Grissom's mouth. "Great Dane. Ow!" She snatched her hand back and gave Grissom an angry look, rubbing at the new bite mark on her hand. "I thought we had a deal, bugman."

"We are not getting a dog, Sara! Especially not one that's taller than either of us!"

The rest of the CSIs settled back to watch the show, taking mental notes for future coffee-break discussions.  "Twenty says she gets the dog," Warrick whispered.

"You're on," Nick agreed, then turned back to watch the action.

"They're great dogs for protection, Grissom! You're always saying that I can't take care of myself, you should be glad to hear I want to get a dog that can protect me when you're not around."

Grissom took an angry bite of pizza, chewed, and swallowed. "I'm not training a dog. You don't have time to train a dog. And Great Danes aren't aggressive enough to protect you."

Sara flung down her crust and retorted, "Neither are you!"

"Oooooh!" came from the peanut gallery. "Thirty," Brass suggested, jumping in on the betting.

Catherine glared at the men and hissed, "She's gonna get the dog, don't bother betting. Trust me on this."

When Catherine turned back to the action, Grissom was staring at Sara, who was laying on her back, legs kicking, as she laughed so hard that she cried. He looked at the group with a "what just happened here?" expression, then leaned over Sara tentatively. "What's so funny?"

Sara hiccupped, made an unrecognizable sound, then tried again. "Sorry . . . this is just the funniest thing I've heard in a long time. Do you realize they're betting on outcomes every time we fight?" She sat up carefully, hugging her stomach. Brass gave her a look that said "now you know how I felt" and she broke into laughter again.

Finally regaining her composure for a moment, she looked at Nick. "How much on who?"

"I don't know what you're, uh . . ."

Sara said nothing, only looked at him steadily.

"Thirty on you," he admitted.

Sara crowed. "Yes! See Gris, when Nick and Warrick's odds say I'm gonna win, you might as well throw in the towel."

"You haven't won yet," Grissom reminded her, laughing in spite of himself.

"We'll see," Sara said, smiling mysteriously. "I have a secret weapon."

"Aw, Sara!" Nick complained. "We don't want to think about you guys doing _that_!" A second later, he was wearing the slice of pizza Sara had been about to bite into.

"Shoulda known better, bro," Warrick said.


	83. Afternoon delight

 "Grissom?" He didn't respond, so Sara pushed the covers aside, rested her head on her hand, and leaned over, looking at him. She loved watching Grissom like this. In sleep, his face relaxed into smooth lines and the harsh expression he affected during waking hours disappeared, making him look years younger. She trailed a fingertip lightly through his gray curls, then moved her finger down to his cheek.

"You like what you see, Sara?" Grissom asked without opening his eyes.

Sara jerked her hand away. "You're supposed to be asleep! Why didn't you answer me when I said your name a minute ago?"

He turned over, yawning. "And deny you your fun? Never. Besides, I watch you sleep, so I thought it was only fair." He held out a hand to her. "Come back here, I'm cold without you as my blanket."

"It's almost time to get up anyway, Gris. See?" She picked up the alarm clock from the bedside table and held it out to him "Five twenty-eight. If we go back to sleep now we'll just be that much crankier two minutes from now." She gave his shoulder a pat and stood up, stretching.

"Speak for yourself," he said, turning back into the pillow. "I get to sleep at least 'til you're out of the shower."

Sara growled something unkind and threw the covers aside, baring Grissom's skin to the cold air. "Get your butt up, bugman. This is an equal-opportunity household. If I'm up, you're up." She was gratified to see the goosebumps rising on his back as he tried to pull the covers back from her hands. "Did you have a late night last night and not tell me or something?" Sara asked with a laugh. "Come on, you fell asleep earlier than me."

Grissom gave a hard yank on his end of the covers and Sara's body came flying toward him as the strength of the tug pulled her off her feet. Pouncing on her, he grinned. "And this surprises you? I always fall asleep earlier than you, Sara. I'm not the one who hardly sleeps."

Sara scrambled to her feet. "Fine, go back to sleep. See if I come back to get you out of bed when I'm dressed. You can just be late to work and try to explain that to everyone else."

"Aw, Sara . . ."

"Nope," she said with a firm shake of her head. "Up, Gris."

Grissom grumbled, but slowly stood up. "You're evil. I don't have to work tonight anyway, Sara, why do I have to be up with you?"

"Oh, you know, I forgot about that. But still. You wouldn't want me to go to work hungry, now would you? You know I can't cook my own breakfast . . ."

"You did it for three years without me, Sidle."

"Mmm," Sara said noncommittally. She swaggered toward him, threw her arms around him, and kissed him deeply. "Wake up, Grissom," she said laughingly. "You can always stay warm this way."

Grissom groaned. "Sara, this is torture, stop."

"Ok," she chirped. She ran her fingers through his hair one more time and pressed against him, then pulled away and snagged a towel, heading into the bathroom.

Grissom shot a dirty look at her back. Well, he was certainly awake now, thanks to that kiss. Giving up on going back to bed, he pulled on a pair of shorts and wandered into the kitchen, pondering what to make for Sara.

He was just putting three waffles onto a plate when he felt a wet body against his back. "See?" Sara purred. "You love getting up just to cook for me."

Grissom stretched a hand behind his back, confirming his suspicion that Sara was _sans_ towel. He turned around and hugged her, trying to ignore the fact that she was naked. "Come on, Sara, eat. You've got to get to work. And go put some clothes on and stop bothering the cook!" he added with a grin. 

Sara simply shook her head and stood on her toes to kiss him. "The cook loves to be bothered. And I've got fifteen minutes before I have to start hurrying . . ."

_Twenty minutes later_

            Sara kissed him again and stood up. "Remind me next time that there are better places than kitchen chairs, huh?"

Grissom only smiled, glad that he didn't have to move in the near future. "Go on and get dressed before I let you seduce me again. I don't think my back can take it."

"Old man," she laughed, and walked toward the bedroom, purposely swaying her hips just to hear Grissom growl.

She was back five minutes later, dressed and pulling a comb through her hair. "Ugh, next time I'll get the knots out of my hair before I do something that gives it enough time to dry into one big mass." Switching the comb to her other hand, she leaned against Grissom, who was balanced against the edge of the counter. "So what are you going to do with your day off?"

He shrugged. "Well, since I have so much time now that _someone_ woke me up hours early, I might go out to a movie or something. How much time do you have before you have to leave?"

Sara checked her watch. "It's 6:45 . . . depending on how much I want to eat, I've got between forty-five minutes and half an hour. Why?"

He gave her a look that said "see how much I love you?" and sat down. "Do you still want to discuss a dog? No promises," he said quickly, "but I at least want to know what you want and why."

Sara forked a bite of now-cold waffle into her mouth and looked thoughtful. "Well like I told you, I want a Great Dane. I like big dogs. Can you picture either of us with little ankle-biters running around the house, trying to eat the bugs?" She laughed when Grissom shuddered. "Yeah, exactly. Anyway, Danes are one of the least demanding types of big dogs. They're not hyper and they're happy as long as you love them. And," she tacked on for his benefit, "they're friendly, but can be fiercely protective of their pack – that would be you and me." 

Grissom looked skeptical. "They're also big enough to do major damage to the house, and they're tall enough to get to anything we try to put out of a dog's reach."

"That's the point of the training, Gris. You don't have to come to obedience classes, you know. I can go alone if you're not interested. I can make time for it."

"Ok," he said slowly. "Say I were to agree to this insane idea. What traits do you want in the dog you pick?"

"Well," she said carefully, "I wish you would have some input. I don't want to get a dog and then have you hate it because you only agreed to get it to shut me up."

"I have input," he said. "And I don't dislike dogs. I just want to know what kind of animal we'd have running around if you had your choice."

Sara sighed. "Ok, hmm. Well I don't want a dog that's going to be bouncing off the walls. Calm is good. Um, intelligent, friendly. Patient . . . the dog can't get pissed at us when we leave it at home during shift. And for what it's worth, I'd ideally choose a black or fawn-colored one. What about you?"

Grissom nodded pensively. "Your criteria sound reasonable. The dog would certainly have to be able to spend a few hours alone, and I don't think either of us could deal with a dog that's destructive."

"So?" Sara asked excitedly. "Can we get one?"

Grissom shook his head. "I'm not making an on-the-spot decision, and you should know better than to be making one too." He checked the wall clock. "You need to get to work, Sara. We can talk about this more tomorrow."


	84. Pour some sugar on me

Sara was still smiling at the afternoon's memory when she opened the box containing evidence for the rape of Susan Akers. Her happiness was soon set aside, though, as she immersed herself in the tragedy this woman had suffered, only one of many like it that happened every day.

The first thing she did after reviewing her notes was to call O'Reilly. "Hey, it's Sara," she said when the detective answered his phone. "I need to talk to a possible suspect/ witness in this rape case. Can you send someone over to his residence to ask him to come in?" 

O'Reilly agreed only after giving her a stern lecture on why she should stay within the lab until the rapist was caught. "I'm serious, Sidle. You had a building full of police behind you and you tried to fight this guy alone. That's the dumbest thing a cop can do, not calling for backup when it's available. You just keep yourself inside that building, or if you have to leave, get Nick or Warrick to go with you, until I get there with this guy."

Sara agreed and hung up, wondering to herself why she was suddenly coming across as a weak woman who needed to be protected. Mentally shrugging, she began to look over her notes and results from the past three days. All the analyses that could be done had been done by this point, and she was left with trying to cobble together what she'd learned into something resembling a coherent case.

She started with the fibers. Two carpeting samples that came from the victim's home; those could be eliminated as evidence of the rapist. Next were the fibers that had come from a carpet. They were light blue, her notes informed her, and triangular. 

Definitely vehicle, so now it was time to start comparing. She walked to the trace lab and retrieved a CD holding their carpeting database. Thanks to modern technology, she could scan in a magnified image of the fiber and the computer would compare it to the thousands of examples stored on the disc, hopefully giving her results in an hour or two. 

Sara returned to her lab and started the process, then moved on to the next fibers, the as-yet-unidentified inked linen. She sighed, knowing that she wouldn't get anywhere with these fibers unless she started doing some checking in the area. Opening the phone book that was stored in a desk drawer, she flipped to the business section and located "bookstores," "libraries," and "antiques," then made photocopies of those pages.

This was the most mid-numbing part of the job, as any CSI could tell you. Cold calls take hours and often don't return anything useful, anyway. Sara took a deep breath, trying to stifle her frustration, and dialed the first number from the "bookstores" page. When the call she was answered, she began the spiel she'd decided to use. "Hello, is this 'Andrew's Bookstop'? Yes, my name is Sara and I'm an investigator for the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I'm looking for information on medieval-era texts. Does your store stock or deal in any such books, or do you know of any business or institution that does?"

One at a time, she crossed off the names on her photocopied lists. After two hours of frustration, Sara heaved a sigh and decided it was time to take a break. No one under  "bookstores" knew anything about old books, at least up to "Vern's Volumes," which was where she'd left off. How could not one bookstore in the Las Vegas area know anything about old books? She was looking for books, these stores sold books! What was wrong with this picture? "Grrrrr," she said, gritting her teeth at the thought of at least two more hours of this.

Just as she was about the launch the phone book across the room, O'Reilly walked in. "Hey Sara, we're . . . uh, what are you doing with that, Sara?" His eyes widened as he took in the large yellow book she was holding over her head and the dangerous expression on her face.

"Oops." Sara quickly put the book down and smiled. "Just, um, exercising my triceps. Don't get to work them enough, you know?"

The detective nodded warily and moved back a step. "Ok, well when you're done . . . exercising . . . I have the suspect ready for you. He hasn't said anything other than 'hello,' 'no,' and 'do I need a lawyer?' so far, so it's up to you to rattle him."

"Will do, Jack," she said sweetly, and turned to leave. Just as she went through the doorway, the computer let out a loud beep. It had either identified the carpet fibers or run out of examples to compare it to. "One sec, I'll meet you in the room. Let me just see what I've got from that fiber run."

The view that greeted her on the computer was the first good news she'd gotten since she entered the building. "Bingo." According to the carpet database, the fibers came from a Ford carpet; more specifically, a "flint gray" Ford carpet. Apparently the "blue" she'd seen wasn't quite blue. Scribbling it down on a piece of scrap, she shoved the information into her folder and headed for the interview room.

Nodding to O'Reilly through the glass pane in the observation room door, she entered the interrogation room and sat across from the man who was waiting. A slight shudder ran through her as she realized the man sitting across from her with a dark scowl on his face had red hair. She stiffened her muscles, then relaxed them. "Jake Chaunce?"

"Yeah. Who're you?"

"My name's Sara. I have some questions for you. Were you aware that there was a rape in your area a few days ago?" While she spoke, she scanned his face for marks her attack could have left. His nose may have been the slightest bit swollen, but she just couldn't tell for sure.

"Nope."

Wonderful, she thought. He was the caveman, one-syllable-word type. This was going to be a pain. "Well, there was. A woman named Susan was raped. We have some evidence at the scene that you may be able to help us interpret. I'm told that you own chinchillas?"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles on the table in front of him. "So?"

"So, do you own any black ones, or know anyone who does?"

"Yuh."

She fought the urge to throw something at the insolent man who was now eyeing her appraisingly. "Yes, you own one? Or yes, you know someone who does?"

"Own one."

"Listen, Mr. Chaunce. This will go a lot quicker if you'll just cooperate with me and answer my questions with some actual information. We want to get this cleared up, and you may be able to help us catch a rapist." The man was staring at her and she was sure she could see rage in his eyes. If he knew something, she was going to get it out of him. "If you won't talk to us, we'll have to assume that your reluctance to share has something to do with the crime, and in that case we can hold you for further questioning."

"Fine," the man ground out. "Whaddaya want to know, little girl?"

"First, I'd like to ask if we have your permission to take a sample of your pet's blood for DNA comparison."

The man looked at her blankly and shrugged. Sara wondered if he even knew what DNA was. Hopefully he didn't, and would see no reason to resist her requests. Imagining O'Reilly behind the glass, sending out a uniform to collect the animal, she added, "Second, I'd like to get a similar sample from you."

"Hold up there," the man said with a wide, fake smile. "I don't want some chick sucking my blood."

"Fine," Sara said, smiling back just as widely and not telling him that she had intended to collect an epithelial sample, not a blood sample. "We'll get one of the men to do it. Warrick's got a nice, strong needle technique . . ."

"Fine, fine. Take the damn blood and let me out of here."

"In a minute, Mr. Chaunce. I have two more questions for you." She shuffled through her papers, letting him stew for a minute. "First, what kind of car do you drive?"

"A truck. Listen, lady, do I have to sit here? Am I under arrest or something?"

Sara shrugged elaborately. "You're free to go, Jake, but I'm telling you that you're better off staying so we can clear this up. I'm sure there's a good reason for evidence implicating you to be at the scene, and I'm going to have to be able to report the reasons to my superior, or they'll want to arrest you." 

Hiding her revulsion, she fluttered her eyelashes at the man charmingly. "It would be silly to have a nice man like you locked up just because he was nervous about talking to a girl like me."

Jake Chaunce preened, and Sara would have sworn she saw his chest puff up. "You're not so bad, girlie. Whatcha doing after this?"

"Well," she said softly, "I was hoping I could get a policeman to take those samples from you and your animal before you leave here tonight. It'd be better to get everything cleared up now, you know, because they don't like if I'm friendly to people who haven't been cleared yet. So . . . let's get you cleared." She gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile.

From behind the one-way mirror came the sound of choking. Apparently O'Reilly found her performance amusing. Hoping that her face showed neither the hilarity not the disgust she was feeling, Sara kept talking in an intimate tone. "So, Jake, tell me about your truck. What kind is it? You know, they say I can judge a man by the size of his . . . truck."

The redhead grinned lasciviously. "Oh, it's plenty big enough for you and me. I got an Expedition. You ever seen the cargo area in one of them? Big as a bed, let me tell you." Sara continued looking at the man meltingly and he kept talking. "It's got a black exterior, flint-blue interior. All the girls who've seen it love the blue." He smirked at her. "Maybe I'll show you when we finish here."

"Hmmm, maybe I'll let you," she smiled. "Oh, one more thing. Do you know anything about old books? It doesn't have anything to do with you, I'm just wondering since I've got another case where some girl got herself raped in a bookstore." That's it, Sara – talk on his level, blame the victim. She hated to even pretend to believe it, but she knew it would be effective. "You look like the kind of guy who knows stuff like this." She raised an eyebrow, still smiling.

"Aw, hell yeah. I know a lot of stuff, sweetie. I work in the ULV library, we got a couple of those medieval-type things hanging around taking up space."

Sara stood up and cocked a hip to the side, allowing the suspect to eyeball her figure. "I had a feeling you knew about stuff like that! God, I love smart men. So what do you say we get that blood stuff done and get you out of here for tonight? I'll be right back, let me just get my weapons," she added, wiggling her eyebrows at the word "weapons."

"Bring it on, sweetcheeks."

Sara was back within seconds with a syringe and vacu-tube. She smoothly took the man's blood, talking all the while. "You know, I dated this guy one who loved needles. He thought it was so hot that I knew how to use one. I kept telling him that I have better talents – at least that's what all the guys tell me – but that's all he wanted me for. You know, why can't someone want me for my body every now and then?" It sounded completely absurd to her ears, but Jake Chaunce was lapping it up, at least while he wasn't occupied staring down her v-neck shirt.

"There," she said sweetly, smoothing on a band-aid. "Why don't you just hang out in here for a while and I'll go bring this to my boss. Then we can get out of here in maybe an hour." She licked her lips and gave him a big grin, then walked out.

O'Reilly met her in the hallway, just around the corner. "Damn, Sara, why aren't you on Broadway?" he said disbelievingly. "That was absolutely _inspired_!"

Sara grinned, this time a real smile. "You never know what you can do till you try. And in my case, you never know what you can do without throwing up until you try it on a raping bastard. If you hadn't noticed, the guy's guilty as sin. Pleeeeease get him somewhere far away so I don't have to get ogled any more tonight."


	85. Girls on film

Four pairs of eyes stared at the small TV sitting on a table in the break room. Nick made a show of pushing his jaw closed with one hand, then shook his head, whispering to Warrick, "Dude, that can't really be her."

Warrick took his eyes off the screen only long enough to give Nick a mocking look. "Girl can act, man. You never know what you don't know till you know it." His attention was returned to the tape that was playing just as the on-screen Sara gave Jake Chaunce an amazingly believable "hot and bothered" look.

Catherine was laughing. "Go Sara! Man, what are boobs for, if not to use to catch criminals and boyfriends. She's brilliant!" Just as she was beginning to laugh hysterically, her cell phone rang shrilly. "Damn!" She hit "pause" on the VCR and, flipping open the offending object, tried to control her laughter. "Willows," she managed.

Her laughter suddenly became muffled as she put a hand over her mouth. "Mmph! Uh, hi Grissom. Uh, what's up?" The men strained to hear what Grissom was saying, but Catherine pressed the phone closer to her ear, stonewalling them. "Oh, nothing good. We were just watching, uh, America's Funniest Home Videos. Yeah, reruns." She stopped talking and pulled the phone away from her ear for a moment, giving it a quizzical look, then brought it back to listening position. "You want what? . . . Um, I guess, but why do you . . .ok, ok. Fine. I'll ask."

She put a hand over the mouthpiece and addressed Nick and Warrick. "Hey guys, Grissom wants to know if you two can keep Sara occupied for about two hours after shift ends."

Warrick raised his eyebrows. "Not if she doesn't want to be kept occupied, Cath."

Catherine shrugged helplessly. "Try. He's got some plot going on that he won't tell me about and he needs her out of the house. Take her out to breakfast or something." Speaking into the phone again, she told Grissom, "They say they'll try, but no promises if Sara gets stubborn. Uh-huh, ok. Are you really not going to tell me what's going on? . . . No way, are you serious?" She let out a bark of laughter and said, "Ok then. Yeah, half an hour. See you then."

She closed the phone and turned back to her audience. "Well boys, I'm off. Gotta go help Grissom plot and plan. Keep Sara busy – Grissom or I will call you when we're ready for her." She smiled brightly and retrieved her purse from the table. "Behave, and if she asks, tell her that I had to go check out an old scene or something. Hell, tell her I'm off to have hot sex with an old boyfriend, just don't tell her I'm with Grissom."

"I'd hope the two are mutually exclusive," Warrick said with a humorous look at her.

"Ugh, sex with Grissom? _Never_!" She shuddered delicately and left the room, heading for the exit.

Nick pushed "stop" on the VCR and turned to Warrick. "What was that all about? Grissom's plotting and Catherine's thinking about having sex with him – or, to be more specific, thinking about _not_ having sex with him?"

Warrick laughed. "Dunno about the plotting, but I can promise you that the idea of Grissom naked skeeves her. And me. And you too, I'd hope."

"Well, yeah. So what do you think they're up to?"

"No idea. Maybe he's got those _Trading Spaces_ people coming in to re-do the house or something."

Nick let out a surprised noise, then choked back a laugh. "Oh god, can you just see the two of them living in a house with hay bales as decoration and weird murals painted on the walls?"

"Hmm. Since when do you know what goes on on that show, bro? At least I have the excuse that Cat makes me watch it."

"Ahem." Nick put a finger under his collar and ran it around, trying to loosen the suddenly constricting material. "I, uh, just flip by it every now and then." He quickly hit "play" on the remote control, hoping to distract Warrick.

"You guys watch those girlie decorating shows?" Sara appeared in the doorway, an incredulous expression on her face. "Even _I_ don't watch them, and I'm a girl!" Entering the room, she caught sight of the television. "Uh, why are you guys watching a tape of the interrogation I did tonight?"

The men exchanged looks, wondering how much of their conversation Sara had heard. A silent decision was made and Nick jumped up and approached her. "Well, you know, we don't get to see you acting like a girl that often, so we take advantage of it when we can. And MAN, was that a great performance. O'Reilly brought it in here and told us we needed to watch it." He threw an arm around her shoulders. "Our little CSI, all grown up and tempting dirty rapists."

Sara laughed and pushed at him. "Well it worked, didn't it? No fair making fun of me when something I do works like it's supposed to."

Nick help up his hands in surrender. "Duly noted. So Sar, what are you doing after shift?"

Sara blinked. "Um, I was planning on going home and going to sleep. Why, what are you doing after shift?"

Warrick interrupted Nick's response with a laugh. "Since when do you _sleep_, Sara? You know you're just gonna go home and bug Grissom about a dog."

"Nothing wrong with that. Dogs are good."

"Well," Nick said, "why don't you come get some breakfast with us first? I'd swear you're getting skinnier, I don't think Grissom's feeding you enough. Me and Warrick'll take you to IHOP and get you stuffed on their fruit pancakes. How's that sound?"

"Hmmm . . ." Sara thought for a minute. On one hand, IHOP's blueberry pancakes sounded _really_ good. Oooh, or maybe chocolate chip pancakes. But on the other hand, Grissom was waiting at home for her, and it wouldn't be kind of her to get a great breakfast and leave him to eat cereal.

"Let me call Grissom and see what he's doing," she said finally. "Maybe he can come with us."

"Aw, Sara! We never get you alone anymore, you and Grissom are attached at the hip. Come on and have breakfast with just 'the boys' again. Grissom's probably asleep anyway since he had the night off." He grinned. "Besides, you don't want to act whipped and start calling him for permission to do everything."

He'd struck a nerve with that one, Sara acknowledged to herself. "Ok, ok. We'll go, just the three of us. But you're paying," she added, looking from Nick to Warrick and back.


	86. Breakfast at Tiffany's

"Gil, I don't know why you need me to . . ."

"Listen, Cath, I can't ask one of the boys to do this. I need your woman's instinct."

"Ok, ok. So why am I here and you're there? Why not just do this together?"

"Not enough time, Catherine. Come on, concentrate. Do you have your list?"

"Yeah." She took the phone away from her ear for a moment and scanned the piece of paper he'd given her before they split up. She looked up at the item on the store counter in front of her, the first one listed. "Are you sure this is the kind you want? It's really . . . big. Isn't it going to be expensive?"

"Only the best for Sara. Now come on, what kind did she say she wanted?"

"I don't know! I certainly didn't have the conversation with her, you did. You're supposed to know this stuff before you go shopping."

"Well it's not like I could just say, 'Tonight's the night, Sara, tell me what you want'! That would make things a little obvious. Hold on for a second." He picked up the thing he'd been studying for the past ten minutes and turned it around in his hand, eyeing it appraisingly. "Well this one certainly sparkles. I don't know, though, it might be a little too much . . ."

"That's what I've been telling you. Are you sure this is the kind she wants? You don't want to spend thousands of dollars on it and then see that she's not happy." What did she care, Catherine wondered. This was Grissom's show, not hers. She was just making secondary purchases to complete the setup.

"Are they all this weird-shaped?"

"It's the nature of the beast, Gil. You'll never find one that's perfect. Well, unless you're willing to spend something like three years' salary."

Grissom sighed. This hadn't seemed like such a hard plan when he's concocted it during the night. "Cath?"

"Yeah, hold on a sec, I'm paying." She looked at the sales slip and almost dropped the phone. "Jesus! Eleven-hundred just for this stuff, and it's not even the main event?"

"I told you I'd write you a check tonight, Catherine. It's my money you're spending, so there's no reason for you to be shocked about it."

"But still . . . it's a little much, even if you do want the best."

"If you were in Sara's position, wouldn't you want the most perfect of everything, no matter how much it costs? I mean, I know Eddie wasn't exactly generous, but you can't tell me you wouldn't have wanted something that showed how much thought he'd put into it."

"Well no, Gil, I'm not saying she won't appreciate it. I'm just saying that maybe if you want to keep your house for her to live in, you might want to lower the budget a little." She slung the bag containing her purchases into the backseat of her car and climbed in. 

Marking off what she'd just bought, she scanned the list until she reached the next unchecked item. "You've got to be kidding me. Ca' d'Oro? Do you know how much their stuff . . . oh, never mind. Your money, like you said, but this is a complete extravagance. You don't need to get her one of these to go with it."

"I have savings, Catherine. Just follow the instructions."

She read his writing more carefully. "This is a _custom order_? Gil, you're completely nuts. This can't get done for tonight, and if it can they're going to charge you an arm and a leg. I mean, inscribed rose gold? Ruby? When was the last time you bought real jewelry?"

"Obviously a long time ago, Cath. I don't go around ordering this stuff every time I get a date."

"Hah, like that's often, anyway." She hopped out of the car and headed for the entrance of the Venetian's Grand Canal Shoppes.

"Not fair, Catherine. As I was saying, I have the money for it, and there's nothing and no one in my life I'd rather spend it on."

"Well gee, if you're that desperate to get rid of your money, I'd be happy to accept something like this, even as weird as it is. Okay, hold on again." 

She turned to the jeweler and handed him the note Grissom had written. "It's for a friend," she explained to the man. "He's out of his mind, but he's willing to pay for the luxury. Custom order, he wrote explicit instructions on here. I think there's even a sketch." Catching the jeweler's startled look when he scanned the note, she nodded. "Yeah, I know. Exactly. But he's determined, so . . . can you do it?" 

"Yes, ma'am, but as I heard you say a few minutes ago, it will, indeed, cost an arm and a leg. Possibly two legs, I'd have to check with my boss." He gave her a small smile.

Catherine shrugged and spoke into the phone. "Two legs ok, Gil?"

"Very funny, Catherine. Just put in the order."

"Whatever you say, boss." 

She turned back to the jeweler and nodded. "Yeah, he's serious about this. Billing address is on the back of the note," she told him, pointing to it. "He's good for the money, I can promise you that."

"Ok, Gris. He said you can pick it up at six o'clock. Have I mentioned in the past few minutes that you're insane?"

"Yes. Now hold on," he told her tiredly, and turned back to the dealer on his end, who was watching with fascination as Grissom authorized exorbitant purchases over the phone. "So how much can I expect to pay for a high-quality one?"

"Well if this is going to be something you put on prominent display, you'd want to buy an investment-quality one. If, on the other hand, it's intended to please the person you're giving it to and not necessarily anyone else, a slightly lower-quality specimen can be just as good." He waved a hand toward his wares. "For investment-quality, we're talking at least five thousand. High-quality, between fifteen hundred and two thousand. The selection of investment-quality is limited, as you can see, but there's more choice if you decide you don't need to spend that much."

Grissom chewed his lip thoughtfully. This was an important decision; he hoped to pick for Sara exactly what she'd pick for herself if he were to bring her here. He knew that perfection wasn't as important to her as having one that matched her personality. "She doesn't need or want investment-quality. This is for life, not to make a profit off of."

"Ok, Dr. Grissom. Well, do you have any favorites from over here in the high-quality area?"

"Yes . . ." Grissom said slowly. Taking a deep breath, he pointed. "I want that one."


	87. I'm shameless when it comes to loving yo

Sara forked down the last bite of her pancakes and looked up at Nick. "There, are you happy? I ate an entire plate of chocolate chip pancakes. I don't think I've eaten this much in one sitting since I was a kid. So why are we still here? Guys, we've been eating for almost two hours, what's the deal?"

Nick didn't answer her question. Instead, he smiled and said, "You've got some chocolate on the side of your mouth, Sara." He offered her his napkin. "Here, I'll get it."

Sara batted his hand away and scowled. "You guys must have an ulterior motive for this. Spill it, now." Taking a sip of coffee, she cocked an eyebrow at Warrick, who so far had been sitting and impassively observing her conversation with Nick. "Ok, fine. Nick's not talking. Your turn, Warrick. What's going on?"

Warrick coughed. "Nothing's going on, Sara. We just like going out with our coworkers every now and then."

"One-by-one?" She gave the men a dirty look and stood up. "If you're not going to tell me what's going on, I'm leaving. At least I can trick Grissom into telling me the truth about his plots, unlike you two."

Nick and Warrick exchanged looks. "Come on, Sar," Nick pleaded, "just stay a little while longer, ok?" He smiled charmingly and signaled the waitress for more coffee. "We're just fascinated by your little performance tonight. I certainly wish I could get the chance to try that on a female suspect."

Sara sighed. For whatever reason, these two were determined to keep her in the restaurant for as long as possible, and she had a feeling that if she tried to escape, Nick would tackle her. Now was the time for a little subterfuge. "Ok, ok. If I'm gonna stay, I've got to make room in my bladder for more coffee. I'll be back in a few minutes." 

She walked toward the bathrooms, which were at an angle to their table, then veered off before she reached them. The exit was now in front of her and Sara grinned. Silly men, thinking they could trap Sara Sidle. Hadn't they learned anything about her while they watched that tape?

Warrick checked his watch. "Um, Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Sara's been gone for ten minutes. Do you think we should, like, check on her?"

Nick shook his head. "Nah. She's probably refreshing her makeup or something."

A large hand reached out and whacked Nick on the side of his head. "Nick! Listen to what you just said. Since _when_ does Sara wear enough makeup to have to 'refresh' it? Either she's passed out in the bathroom or she got the hell out of this place while we sitting here with our heads up our asses."

Nick could only think of one response to that: "Crap!"

The men each threw twenty dollars on the table and took off for the entrance. Nick stared out the large window glumly. "Dude, we're idiots. Her car's gone." He ground the heel of his palm into his forehead. "What now? Should we call Cath and Grissom and warn them?"

Warrick sighed and started trying to think of the best way out of this disaster. "She's already on her way home, I'm sure. Their house is about fifteen, twenty minutes from here. That means there are three possible outcomes for this. One, we warn the others in time and they get set up for whatever they're planning. Two, we're not in time and Sara walks in on them setting up. Or three, Sara beats them home and they walk into the house to see her already there."

"I say we call," Warrick decided.

"Home or cell?"

Warrick shrugged. "Well if they're home and need the warning, they'll pick up the phone. If they're not home, even if we call them there's nothing they can do unless they want to hire someone to kidnap Sara for another hour. So I say we call the house."

"Ok," Nick said slowly, "makes sense. But they might want us to, like, tie her down or something if they're not home. I get the feeling Grissom's completely obsessed with this whole thing going the way he wants. So I'm overruling you and voting 'cell'." He quickly put a finger on the side of his nose in the international gesture for "not it" and grinned at Warrick. "And I'm not the one doing the calling, my friend."

"I wasn't done talking, no fair calling 'not it' before I'm done!"

"Face it, War, you were done, I beat you, and now you've got to call."

Still grumbling, Warrick dug his cell from his pocket and flipped it open. Not bothering to look at the numbers, he glared daggers at Nick while he dialed. "Phone's ringing."

"Hello?"

"Hi, Grissom? This is, uh, Warrick. Where are you guys right now?"

The fact that the boys were calling him before he'd called them did not bode well. "Catherine's on her way back to my house. I'm in the car heading for the jewelry store."

"Jewelry?" Warrick asked excitedly. "Are you proposing to her?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, Warrick. Now, why are you calling me?"

"Sara, um, escaped us. She's on her way home. We weren't sure whether you guys were ready yet, so we figured we'd give you a heads-up. She left IHOP about fifteen minutes ago."

Grissom muttered something crude. "How could you let her get away from you? You two know this is important!"

"Sorry, Gris, but she said she was going to the bathroom and then skipped out before it even occurred to us. So, uh . . . what do you want us to do now?"

"Hmm . . ." Grissom's mind raced, trying to find a solution. "Are you two up for a little bit of . . . a stronger type of persuasion?"

Nick, who was listening next to Warrick's ear, turned to look at his friend in surprise at the same time Warrick did. Their heads banged together and they both grunted, then Nick motioned at the phone. "Gimme, I'll talk to him." Warrick, glad to be relieved of the burden, handed it over.

"Hey Gris, it's Nick. What exactly do you mean by 'stronger'?"

"I'm thinking tied feet so she can't run away again. Then you two can take her wherever you want until Cath and I are ready."

Nick looked at the phone incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Not kidding."

"You're telling me that you want me and Warrick to _kidnap_ Sara and tie her up so she can't go back to the house?"

"That _is_ what I just said, Nicky. Now, will you do it?" Grissom heard the sound of hands being slapped in the background and smiled. If they were high-fiving each other, that meant they'd do it. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes! Just keep in mind that you told us to do this. It better not come back to haunt us later. And you'd better be ready to keep Sara from killing us once we untie her."

"Not a problem. Now go!" Grissom flipped the phone shut and shook his head, amazed at his own gall. He might be sleeping on the couch for a week after this stunt, but he was hoping the surprise was enough to make Sara feel charitable.

**A/N:** Ooooh, the suspense. You'll find out what Grissom's plotting sometime in the next few chapters, I promise. Oh, and IHOP, for those of you who don't have them, is a restaurant that specializes in creative breakfast foods – pancakes, French toast, etc. I think the chain is country-wide, but I'm not positive, so if they don't exist in Vegas, let's just pretend.


	88. Just to see you smile

Catherine stared at the phone wide-eyed, as though Grissom could see her through it. "You had them do _what?_"

"Well," he said defensively, "I couldn't think of any other way to keep her out of the way. What would you have suggested?"

"Gee, I don't know. Maybe tell her that you have a surprise for her and you need her out of the house while you prepare it?"

Grissom laughed derisively. "And you think she would stay away if I told her that? Uh-uh, Cath, she'd be sneaking back into the house just to prove she could do it, let alone to see what I was doing." He shifted the load he held in his left arm and said, "Listen, Catherine. I did it, it's done with. If she hates me, she hates me and I'll come to work tomorrow with another handprint on my face. Honestly, though, I think she'll be so pleased with the surprise that she won't mind how I arranged things." 

Catherine snorted loudly. "Just keep telling yourself that." She wondered whether he was driving, and how he was managing this multi-tasking if he was. "Are you driving, Grissom? I hope you're being careful, because it would suck to have to explain to Sara that yeah, Grissom had a great surprise planned, but he ended up splattered all over the road with the surprise next to him. Oh, and hey, Gris?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't come running to me if she beats the hell out of you," she snickered. "Now I'm gonna go start setting everything up. How long till you get here?"

"About an hour, give or take. I've got to stop by the jewelry store and pick up my order, then I'll be home. Just try to get everything sorted out and organized and when I get there I'll help you arrange it all. And Catherine?"

"Yep."

"Don't break anything, and don't scare the spider."

She harrumphed and hung up the phone, then turned to face the mess that was currently occupying Grissom's living room. Everything was out of her car, and it looked like even more stuff than it had when she'd purchased it all. With a sigh, she stepped into the room and began to sort things into piles.

Grissom parked the car and walked into Ca' d'Oro. He'd never been in this store and he tried not to look dazzled by the sheer quantity of diamonds, gold, and platinum scattered around the room. He wished he'd asked Catherine to do this also, because he felt like a fool coming into this store to check out and pay for the jewelry that he'd ordered.

He was getting strange looks from the customers, he noticed, and he hadn't even had the item brought out. Looking around, he offered reassuring smiles to the open-mouthed people surrounding. Shifting the load in his arms again nervously, he walked to a counter. "Hi, I'm here to pick up a custom order? It should be under the name 'Gil Grissom'."

The clerk checked a clipboard and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Grissom, we've just finished your piece. Let me get Jack for you, since he handled the order." He motioned to a slightly older man who was leaning against a wall, apparently supervising the room.

The man walked over and nodded. He stuck out a hand for Grissom to shake, then pulled it back embarrassedly when he realized that Grissom didn't have a free hand. "Jack Morton, at your service. Are you Mr. Grissom?"

"Yes. I had a friend put in an order here this morning, and she said . . ."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Grissom. I remember it, believe me. We rarely get such unusual orders, especially with a rush request. And rarely are they presented by such beautiful woman who have been given carte blanche by person they represent." He smiled widely and added, "Give me five minutes and I'll go get it for you. I assume you'll want to evaluate it before you pay?"

Grissom nodded. "Yeah, that's what I was hoping to do."

"Ok, then, I'll be right back."

The man was back in less than five minutes, proudly bearing Grissom's purchase on a velvet pillow. 

Twenty minutes after that, Grissom smiled and nodded at the friendly man. "This is exactly right. Thank you very much, it's beautiful work. How much do I owe you?"

"Well," the jeweler said _sotto voce_, "why don't we go back to one of the private rooms to discuss that."

Grissom had a good idea what that meant, but he only nodded and followed Jack Morton toward the back of the store.

_Elsewhere and later…_

            Sara tried again to get her wrists untied from the nylon rope that held them behind her back. Failing that, she shouted another threat at Nick. "You are SO DEAD! I'm going to personally make sure you never get a date again, and then I'm going to tell Greg you have a crush on _him_, and then I'm going to get Grissom to fire you . . ."

            "Whoa," Warrick whispered to his friend, laughing quietly. "I think the woman's a little peeved."

            "I'll show you peeved, you idiot! I can hear you guys talking up there, you know! You have no right to laugh, Warrick, because you're in just as deep a pile of shit as Nick is!" She kicked the back of Warrick's seat so hard that she thought for a second that she'd broken something in her foot.

"Sorry, Sidle," Warrick said innocently, rubbing his back where her foot had nearly made it through the layers of upholstery. "This was Nick's idea, I swear. He had to threaten me to make me go along with it."

"Dirty lying bastards!"

"Well, yeah," Nick admitted, giving in to the humor of the situation. "We are that. Well, except the 'dirty' and 'bastards' parts. But yeah, I'll admit that we do lie occasionally." He grinned, though he was aware that Sara couldn't see it through her blindfold.

"I hate you! I hate you both! Why won't you just freaking tell me what's going on? I'm tied up and blindfolded as it is, it's not like I can escape whatever you have planned for me. You're both wusses, you're afraid of what I'll do to you when I get out of these damn ropes!"

The two men in the front seat of the car exchanged apprehensive glances. "Damn right we're afraid," Nick said. "But we're just pawns this time, it's not our fault." He swung the car to a stop outside the townhouse and shifted into "Park." Eyeing the woman in the backseat, he decided that "nice" was the way to go right now. "Okay, Sara honey, we're here."

"Where's 'here,' you asshole?"

Hmm, apparently she wasn't as good at following driving routes as they had been afraid. Whether or not she knew where she was, though, she was still angry as hell, so Nick decided to let Warrick lead her up the walk and into the house. He motioned for the taller man to take her and was answered by a dangerous look.

Warrick took Sara's arm, avoiding both the boot she was trying to break his foot with and the elbow that was flying around in the vicinity of his nose. "Come on, Sara, chill out. We're here, your ordeal is almost over, so how about a few kind words for your unwilling captors?"

"Bite me," she enunciated clearly, but allowed herself to be pulled up to the door and pushed inside when Warrick opened it.

Once they had her inside the house, Nick untied her hands but kept a good grip on them so she couldn't pull off the blindfold yet. "Soon, Sara," he whispered to her, then stepped back as far as his arm would allow.

Nick and Warrick met the eyes of Catherine, who was alternately gaping at Sara, smirking at the men, and looking around the corner to the kitchen to see if Grissom was ready. "Are you ready, Sara?"

"Catherine! You too? What the hell is this? Why am I tied up?"

Catherine laughed. "You'll know soon. Are you ready to find out what this is all about?"

"YES!"

Catherine nodded and motioned to Nick to pull off the handkerchief that covered Sara's eyes.

Before he had it off, though, a yelp came from the kitchen, then Grissom's distinctive voice shouted, "Shit! Damn dog peed on me!"

Taking advantage of Nick's hand dropping in surprise, Sara pulled the blindfold the rest of the way off and surveyed the room. "Dog? What in the _hell_ is going on here, Grissom?"


	89. You're really sweet, really nice, but di

**A/N:** Sorry about the double post, guys. ff.net went bonkers on me and apparently ate the NEW chapter I posted and replaced it with an old one…bad fan fiction archive site! Bad! **whacks it on the nose with a roll of newspaper**

**Later A/N:** This is now the third damn time that I've uploaded this chapter. If it doesn't work this time I am going to track down the servers that hold ff.net and rip out their guts! Well, that or I'll bitch and moan a lot and try e-mail the chapter to people.

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Mentally smacking himself, Grissom walked around the corner and presented himself to Sara. Or rather, he presented the dog in his arms to Sara. The puppy was obviously excited and, now that it no longer had to pee, was nearly bouncing out of his arms.

Sara stared.

Nick high-fived Warrick.

Catherine shook her head and said, "Nice one, Gil."

Grissom frowned at her, then turned back to Sara, a sheepish look on his face. "Uh . . . this was supposed to be a better-organized surprise." He shoved the puppy at her and said, "I hope you like her. She's a little more excitable than we had discussed, but she just seemed perfect for us. Uh, for you."

Sara accepted the gift, still staring at Grissom. "You got me a dog?"

"I, uh, yeah. Is she what you wanted?"

Sara dropped to the floor, still holding the puppy, and started laughing. "You got me a puppy. You had Nick and Warrick tie me up, stuff me into Nick's car, and hold me captive for two hours so you could get me a puppy." She flopped onto her back, holding the dog above her, and began a joking examination. "She's black! Four paws . . . good. Two ears . . . good. One tail . . ." She stopped counting, looking at the dog's neck. "Uh, Gris? What's this?"

Grissom cleared his throat. "It's her collar."

Sara sat up, cradling the dog in her arms. "This is not a collar, Grissom. It looks like it came from Tiffany's or something!" She fixed him with a steady gaze. "Explain. Now."

"Um. I, uh . . ."

Catherine jumped in, cutting off Grissom's mumbles. "Take a closer look at it before you bite his head off, Sara." 

Grissom looked at her, then looked at Sara and nodded. "Yeah. What she said."

"Why Gil Grissom," Sara laughed, "you're tongue-tied! Ok, I'll bite. Let's see here." She ran a hand under the rose-colored metal that seemed four times too big for the puppy's small neck, bringing it closer to her face. She had been right; it resembled the famous Tiffany's chain-link bracelet. Hanging off the collar was not a heart, like on the bracelet, but a heart-shaped dog tag that had something inscribed on it.

She squinted, trying to read the small print. "My name is Newton," she read slowly. "I belong to Sara Sidle, 1523 Oak Rd." 

She looked up.  "Newton, Grissom? Have you been reading my old physics textbooks?"

He grinned. "Do you like it? I mean, do you like _them_ – the dog and the collar?"

"Of course I like it, Gil! But this collar looks _really_ expensive. Tell me these aren't real rubies on the tag!"

Grissom ran a finger under his collar. "Um . . . they are. It's rose gold and they _are_ rubies."

"Oh my god. How much did you spend on this, Gil?"

Grissom approached her, smiling softly. "If you really need to know, we'll talk about that later. But I still want to know if you're happy about the dog."

Sara grinned widely. "Oh _course_ I'm happy with her, Grissom! I can't believe you went to all this trouble." She looked around the room, surveying the training crate, food and water dishes, and dog toys that were arranged on the floor. "Did you spend all day shopping? My god, Gris, you bought everything!"

"Okay," Catherine sang out. "I think that's our cue to leave, boys." She grabbed Nick's arm in one hand and Warrick's in the other and led them out the door.

When the door closed behind them, Sara shifted the puppy to her left arm and flung her right around Grissom's neck. "I can't believe you did this. Thank you so much."

Grissom laughed and hugged her back. "Do you want me to take her? She's pretty heavy for you to be holding."

"No, no, no! I want to hold her, I'm still in shock that you did this for me!" The puppy apparently had other ideas, though, because she yipped and started chewing on Sara's hand. "Ouch," Sara giggled. "I think she's either hungry or pissed at us for fussing over her." She set the dog down gently, watching to see what Newton did.

When the puppy just circled around and flopped onto the ground, laying her head on her oversized paws, Sara smiled. "Now tell me all about this. I still can't believe you got this all done in one day!"

"Well, I had some help. Catherine and I split up and, between the two of us, managed to get everything. I figured out the basics while you were at work, and did some research," he explained, "and then I called Catherine out to help me.

"I went to the breeder's first. He walked me through what getting a Great Dane would entail, and what we could expect, and then took me out to see the puppies he had." He smiled. "He was very protective of his dogs. Wouldn't let me touch one until he'd spoken to two character references for me, so I had him call Catherine and Brass.

"When I finally got a look at them, he explained the difference between the investment-quality puppies and the pet-quality puppies to me and I looked around." Shaking his head, he laughed. "I'll admit, I was enchanted. I know how you feel now. So I played with a few of them and found some favorites, then the breeder and I discussed whether I wanted show- or pet-quality, and I picked Newton, here."

Sara raised an eyebrow. "Is she show-quality, then, or pet?"

"I told the breeder that she was going to be ours, not on display, so we decided on just a pet. I was in love with Newton by that point anyway." 

Sara grinned at him. "Good choice, I approve. But how did you get this collar? _Why_ did you get this collar?"

"I sent Catherine to a jewelry store with a note and a sketch and they made it for me."

"_Made_ it for you? This was custom made?" She may not have been the most fashion-conscious female on earth, but Sara knew how much custom-made jewelry could cost. She looked Grissom square in the eye. "What store, Grissom?"

"Uh, some place in one of the hotels," he hedged.

Sara continued staring at him. "What _store_, Grissom?"

"Ca' d'Oro."

Sara let out a squeak. "WHAT?" She shook her head as though she were trying to clear out a fanciful thought and said, "Come again? I thought you said Ca' d'Oro."

"I did."

"Oh. My. God. Do you know how expensive that place . . . well, I guess you do. How much, Grissom? You don't have enough money to get me custom-made jewelry from the most exclusive jeweler in Las Vegas!"

He took her hand and told her the same thing he'd told Catherine earlier. "I have savings, Sara. A lot of savings; it's not like I spent a lot of money on my social life before you. Besides, spending it on making you happy is what I want to do with it, and it's my money."

"_How much._" It wasn't a question anymore; Sara was demanding an answer.

"Um." He considered lying, but decided that at this point, Sara could read his mind and that it would go worse for him if he lied than if he told the truth. "It wasn't a lot, Sara, honestly."

"Grissom."

"About four thousand."

Sara let out a huge breath and said again, "Oh my god." Tugging her hand out of his grip, she sank down onto the floor, blank-faced. Newton, interested in this violation of her floor, meandered over and began licking Sara's hand. Sara looked down at the puppy in surprise, having nearly forgotten that she was there. "Hi, sweetie," she said, picking up the dog and hugging her.

Grissom was concerned now. "Sara? Are you ok?" He put a hand on her shoulder and shook it gently. "Sara?"

Still holding Newton, Sara stood up and faced him. "You can't spend that much money on me. You shouldn't be spending _any_ money on me, Grissom! This is way too much." She struggled to unclip the dog's collar. "Take this back. Maybe you can sell it to another jeweler." Nearly in tears and unable to get the collar open with one hand, she buried her face in the dog's fur and took a deep breath.

"I'm not taking it back," Grissom told her firmly. "The dog is yours, and the collar is hers. I want you to have both, and I'm not taking either of them back."

"Grissom . . ."

He wrapped his arms around her and held on when she tried to escape. "No, Sara. Accept it, please."

Sara sighed and lifted her head. "Okay, Gil. But never again. This is enough for a lifetime."

"Nothing could ever be enough for spending a lifetime with you."


	90. I wanna be sedated

Chapter 90

Sara turned over slowly, trying not to wake the man sleeping beside her, and smiled. She had an urge to touch him, but it was so close to their waking time that she knew he'd wake up if she did. Instead, she slipped out from between the sheets and pulled on an undershirt, then padded toward the kitchen.

Silence was not the strong point of the canine bouncing around the kitchen, however, and Newton yipped excitedly when she heard footsteps approaching. "Shh," Sara admonished her. "Don't wake daddy up." In the month that had passed since Newton had come home, Sara and Grissom had both picked up the rather pathetic habit of referring to themselves as the dog's parents. At least they hadn't let it slip to anyone else, Sara reflected. Now _that_ would be embarrassing.

"Ok, ok, calm down," she whispered to the puppy that now stood thigh-high on her. Squatting down, she stroked the dog's silky ears and smiled a little sheepishly. She loved waking up to this, though she had never thought of herself as exactly Miss Domesticity before. A wonderful man in her bed, a wonderful dog to greet her when she left that bed; what more could a woman ask for?

Well, if you were Newton, you could ask – loudly – for breakfast. The puppy chose discretion, though, and she let out a low bark, as though she knew not to wake Grissom, who could be a bear when pulled out of bed by someone other than Sara.

"You little brat," Sara chuckled, then kissed the top of the dog's head and stood up to get the bag of dog food off of the top of the fridge. A wave of dizziness hit her suddenly and she quickly dropped the arms she had been reaching with back to her sides, then squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again.

Newton had moved toward her and was now standing at Sara's knee, looking at her with what Sara would swear was a worried expression on her doggie face. "I'm ok, sweetie," she assured the dog, then shook her head to try to clear it. This only made the dizziness worse, though, and Sara took a firm hold on the edge of the counter to keep herself upright. 

Newton whined and pushed under Sara's free hand. Her back was right at the level of Sara's dangling hand, so Sara put a small amount of her weight on that hand and leaned against Newton while she sank back to her earlier position on the floor. "Good girl," she whispered to the dog, and wondered what the hell was going on. Had she forgotten to eat again?

A quick mental inventory revealed that no, she and Grissom had gone out to dinner last night and she had definitely eaten. "Maybe I just stood up too fast," she told the dog reassuringly. Newton whined again and pushed her nose against Sara's chest. With a sigh, Sara leaned back against the cabinet and closed her eyes again. The dog echoed her sigh and sat down, resting her head against Sara's shoulder. Sara opened her eyes for a moment and surveyed their position with the vague thought that this would probably make a good calendar photo. The energy to go get Grissom so he could take a picture wasn't in her, though, and so she just closed her eyes again.

"Sara? Sara!" The combination of Grissom's voice in her ear and his hands shaking her shoulders woke Sara up fifteen minutes later. She blinked, then looked sleepily at him.

"What the hell is going on, Sara? You fell asleep on the kitchen floor?"

She managed a small smile. "Guess so. I got dizzy so I sat down with the dog . . . must've gone back to sleep. How long've I been out?"

"I don't know; it's 5:30 now. What time did you get up?"

"Oh," Sara told him brightly, "I've only been asleep for about fifteen minutes then, it's fine."

Grissom looked at her incredulously. "You passed out on the kitchen floor with the dog in your lap and you're telling me it's _fine_ because you were only out for fifteen minutes? Are you nuts?" He closed his mouth, suddenly aware that he was nearly yelling at her and that Sara's eyes were still only vaguely focused on him. "Tell me the truth, Sidle. Are you really ok?"

Sara leaned her head back against the wood behind her. "I think so. I just got dizzy, so I sat down. I feel fine now, no dizziness, I think I probably just stood up too fast when I went to get the dog food." She blinked slowly, then opened her eyes and focused on him. "I'm fine, Gil, I promise." She held out a hand expectantly, silently ordering him to help her up.

Grissom did so, still looking at her suspiciously. "Did you forget to eat again?"

Sara laughed. "That was my first thought too. But no, remember we went out to dinner and I stuffed myself?"

"Oh." He looked thoughtful and kept a firm grip on her hand, leading her back to the bedroom. "You're not hung over again, are you? Been hitting the whiskey while I was asleep?"

"Very funny, bugman. For the five-hundredth time, I'm fine, I'm not drunk, and I remembered to eat." She tugged her hand out of his and smiled in apology. "I'm gonna get in the shower. If you hear a thump, it means I passed out . . ."

"Sara!"

". . . and if you don't, then I'm fine." She cupped his cheek and kissed him gently. "And you won't be hearing a thump, so relax."

Grissom frowned deeply, but let her go. "Don't lock the door!" he called after her. "If you do fall, I want to be able to get to you!" He was answered by her gentle laughter as she shut the bathroom door, but there was no sound of the lock clicking. "Good girl," he muttered, more to himself than to her, then headed for the kitchen to check on his other girl.


	91. Killing me softly

Chapter 91

Catherine took one look at Grissom and pulled him aside before he could walk into the breakroom. "What's wrong?"

He looked surprised. "Nothing's wrong, Cath, why do you ask?"

Leaning against the wall with a disbelieving look on her face, she replied, "Because your face is a shade lighter than it should be, and you were about to walk into the door." She gestured with one hand toward the doorway he had been heading for, displaying that the door was indeed closed and he had been about to hit it.

"Oops," he said sheepishly. "I'm just preoccupied. With work," he added quickly, aware that if Catherine scented relationship troubles she'd leap on them.

"Preoccupied," she repeated with no inflection. "Uh-huh. What's wrong with her?"

"What?"

"Sara, Grissom. What's wrong with her, or between you, or whatever? We both know that's the only thing that'll make you freak out like this." She grinned, loving the shock on his face. "You think we don't all know that, Gil? Now come on and tell me what's going on." She turned and headed for his office, trusting that he would follow her.

His office door was ajar when they got there, and both Grissom and Catherine were surprised to find Sara sitting in the dark, talking to Fluffy as she always seemed to do when she was troubled. ". . . dog, so she helped me down . . ." Startled, Sara looked up, took stock of who was facing her, and quickly returned the spider to its home. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Just hanging out. I have to go now anyway." She gave Catherine a small smile, shot a dirty look at Grissom, and headed out the door.

"What was _that_ all about, Gil?"

Grissom shrugged helplessly. "I don't know! If I knew, do you think I'd be this strung-out?"

"Aha," Catherine said triumphantly, "so you admit that you _are_ strung-out. Come on, just tell me what happened, you know I usually know how to help you." She took a seat across from Grissom and folded her arms in front of her, giving him an expectant look.

Grissom fell back into his chair, half-closing his eyes. "I don't know what happened, like I said. That's the problem!" Realizing that repeating this fact wasn't going to do him any good, he sighed.  "I found her asleep in the kitchen this morning," he said, as though it should explain everything.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "That's it? You found her asleep at the table and it freaked you out this much?" She grinned. "Maybe you were stealing all the blankets or something."

"No, no. I found her asleep on the floor with the dog. When I woke her up, she told me she felt dizzy all of a sudden and had just sat down and must have fallen asleep. She seemed to think it was fine because she was only asleep for a short time."

"Hmm. Dizzy." Catherine chose, in the best Rogerian fashion, to only repeat back what Grissom had said. According to one of the professors she'd had in college, it would make him spit it all out faster.

"Yes, dizzy. And she didn't forget to eat, either. It's just not like Sara to have weak spells or anything, Cath, we all know that. I'm worried that she's getting sick." 

Catherine leaned her chair back on two legs, feet planted against the front of the desk. Trying to hide her thoughts, she furrowed her brows. "Sick, huh? Has anything else been wrong with her? I mean, maybe she was just tired; has there been something else that made you suspicious that she was sick."

Grissom shook his head. "No, not really. It's just . . . an impression I have. I can't explain why, but I still feel it, you know?"

"Well, you two do almost share a brain. Maybe you're getting psychic brainwaves from her immune system."

"Don't be ridiculous, Catherine. This isn't a joke to me." He began to nibble nervously on the cuticle of his right thumb, which told both of them that he was even more upset than he seemed. "I'm just . . . worried. Maybe she's been sleeping a little more lately," he said slowly, sorting through his memories to find whatever evidence he could. "She's just a little _off_, is all. You wouldn't notice it unless you're as close to her as I am."

Catherine thought for a moment. "Do you want me to talk to her, woman to woman? She might be more willing to tell _me_ facts about her body than you."

He buried his face in his hands, realizing that he was more worried than he'd thought. "If you think it might help, Cath, go ahead. I don't care who she talks to as long as I know what's going on with her." A pause. "Wait, what do you mean, 'facts about her body'? Do you think you know what's wrong?"

"Of course not, Gil. If I knew, I'd tell you just to get you back to normal – do you even know how terrible you look right now?" She smiled slightly. "I'll try to corner Sara, but as usual, no promises. I still don't think she trusts me completely. She might be more likely to talk to Nick or Warrick than me, even though they're men. Can I tell them what's going on and see if they can find anything out?"

"No," Grissom said, shaking his head. "No, not yet. I don't want the whole lab to be breathing down her neck. She'll figure it out then, and I'll be dead meat."

"Oookay," Catherine agreed in a singsong voice. "But you might have to get them involved eventually if she won't talk to you. Don't get so worried, Gil, it may be nothing. Maybe she really did stand up too fast and everything you're worrying about turns out to be just low blood pressure."

"Maybe, Cath. I certainly hope so; I'm not good with sick people."

"Oh," she said lightly, "I think Sara would be different. I have the feeling that you'd be by her side even if she had Ebola, or even SARS." With this comment and a flippant grin, she stood up and left Grissom in his office to stew.


	92. Our lips are sealed

**A/N:** Thanks to April and Rosa for helping me with some . . . ahem . . . research!

Chapter 92

Nick stared at Sara, eyes wide. They were sitting in an all-night deli waiting for everyone's lunch orders to be made; making the two "babies" of the team go pick everything up had been Catherine's idea.

"You ordered what?"

"What's it to you?" she asked defensively. "It's not like it's an unusual thing for a human to eat." She sat back against the back of the booth, glaring at him. "Don't look at me like that!"

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Nick countered. "I'm just . . . surprised." He turned the menu toward her and pointed. "But you _do_ realize that this is what you ordered, right? Chicken Caesar Salad? _Chicken _Caesar Salad? Chicken . . . meat . . . dead pig . . . vegetarian? Any of this ring any bells?"

Sara scowled. "Zip it, cowboy. This topic is not open to discussion." In truth, she had no idea why she'd ordered the meat dish, other than knowing that suddenly it just didn't seem as repulsive a concept as it had before. Besides, no one else in the lab was a veggie, so whose position was it to judge her eating habits? No one's! And chicken caesar just sounded _so _damn appetizing! She could almost feel the drool forming.

Nick shrugged. "Whatever you say, babe, but you're gonna be hearing it from the rest of the team too in a few minutes, so you'd better get used to it."

"Jesus Nick, it's _chicken_! I'm not bringing about the end of the world by consuming a small amount of a type of small, feathered fowl that is raised on farms for the express purpose of being eaten to begin with!" She said this with such vehemence that Nick actually leaned back in his seat, afraid that she would lash out at him. "Sorry," Sara sighed. "I'm a little on edge today. Grissom freaked out on me this morning."

Oh, not again. Those two were always going at it . . . one way or another. "Want to talk about it?" he offered in his best big brother voice.

Before Sara could speak, the boy working the deli counter called, "Order 547!"

Nick looked down at the ticket he held. "Oops, that's us. Hold that thought." He walked to the counter, exchanged a few words with the boy, paid, and took a good grip on the four large bags he was handed. Walking back toward Sara, he jerked his head toward the door. "No hands. Get the door for me?"

Sara jumped up, then quickly sat back down again. Geez, what was wrong with her today? First she fell asleep on the floor with the dog, then she was having meat for lunch, and now she was having another dizzy spell. This was going to take some thought when she could get some time alone, Sara decided. Catching Nick's puzzled look, she sighed. "Sorry. Dizzy."

Nick frowned. "You okay?" He juggled the bags around until he had a semi-free hand, which he laid against her forehead, ignoring the dark look she gave him. "You don't feel warm . . . hmm, had your blood pressure checked lately?"

"No, Nicky. You can check it after lunch if it excites you that much, but for now can we please just head back to CSI?" She stood up, more slowly this time, and managed to make it through the door with Nick at her heels.

When they were standing in front of the Tahoe again, Nick shrugged in response to her earlier comment. "Whatever you say, boss. I'm just looking out for you."

Climbing into the passenger seat of the Tahoe, Sara smiled at him. "I know. And I'm hard to look out for, I'm told." She took a deep breath, trying to clear the last of the dizziness out of her head, and was suddenly assaulted by the smell of tuna. Her stomach clenched and she bit her lip. There was no way she was going to throw up in the car with Nick. She'd already done that with Grissom, and she doubted that Nick would be as understanding about her throwing up on him. Quickly taking another breath, she held it and decided to just try not to breathe the rest of the way back.

Nick looked over at Sara after a few minutes, wondering why she was so silent. He was both surprised and a little amused to see that her face was a strange color that was somewhere between blue and green. "Carsick?" he asked with a small chuckle. "Not my Sara!" When she didn't respond, he realized that maybe she really did feel sick. "Need me to pull over, Sar?"

Still silent, Sara shook her head and waved him on, then rolled down her window and stuck her head outside.

"Umm . . . Sara?" Nick tried again.

"Yeah." Her voice drifted back from outside the car.

"Are you ok? Still nauseous?"

"Mmmm."

"What?"

"No I'll be, uh, fine. Keep driving."

Nick frowned. "It's going to suck if you throw up on or in this car, Sidle, so if you have to puke just tell me to pull over and you can do it on the side of the road." He reached out a hand to rub her back comfortingly. "It's fine, hon. Just let me know." Privately, though, he wasn't so sure. In the three years he'd known Sara Sidle, he could count on one hand the number of times she'd been ill, and all of those times had involved either a decomp or saliva. He wondered what was going on with her.

Feeling better, Sara took another deep breath of fresh air and pulled her head back into the car, rolling her window back up. "Phew," she said with a smile. "The tuna just _got_ to me. Who ordered that shit?"

"Er, I did," he said cautiously.

"Oops," she said. "Sorry. But it really does reek, what were you _thinking_?" She shook her head, which by now she should have known not to do. This time it brought with it not only the vertigo, but also the nausea. "Um, Nick."

"Yep," he said, eyes on the road. 

"Pull over."

"Wha?" He took one look at her face, which was again that strange color, and veered sharply toward the side of the road. "Go, go!" he ordered her, and watched as she made for the trashcan on the corner of the street.

Nick took the time to make sure he had the car in Park and that the keys were in his pocket, then jumped out and trotted after Sara. "Hey," he said softly when he got to her. She was still huddled over the garbage can, though the heaves seemed to have stopped. "What's going on, Sara? You're really scaring me."

Sara stood up and wiped her mouth with a tissue she dug out of her pocket. "Nothing's going on. I'm fine. Like I said, the smell just got to me." She offered him a small smile. "I'm fine, really. Let's keep this between us, ok? I don't want anyone else to know that I got carsick and tunasick at the same time."

This was not good, Nick thought. It was time to call in the reinforcements when they got back to the lab. Telling Sara that, though, would be suicide, and so he agreed. "Sure, Sara. Between us."


	93. What's it gonna be? Come on girl, what's

"No way," Sara muttered, staring blankly at the bank of lockers in front of her. She had been changing into her day clothes, but had become distracted by her thoughts and was now sitting, thinking, in a pair of slacks and a bra. Sara had been sitting like this for nearly twenty minutes, and she was surprised that no one had walked in on her yet, but only in a distracted sort of way. Her mind was working too busily to allow entrance to such mundane thoughts as, "Put on a shirt." 

She'd been turning the problem over in her mind continuously, searching for new angles and explanations for her sudden sickness, but was no farther along in finding a solution. Dizziness, she thought. Nausea. Flu? No, flu-induced nausea wouldn't be triggered by food. 

Dehydration? This seemed like a good choice, until she realized that her lips weren't cracked and she'd thrown up a stomach full of water. Ok, then, what about over-hydration? Water poisoning, yeah, that could cause vomiting and dizziness. But then, she hadn't drunk any water in nearly five hours when she got dizzy before going to work.

Running out of options, Sara. Think! Food poisoning. Maybe the salad I had last night was bad. But no, Grissom had eaten some of it too and he was feeling fine. She was getting desperate and began searching her mind for more obscure causes.

Chemicals? She'd read that certain chemicals, when inhaled, could cause the symptoms she had. Pesticides, even everyday things like white-out, if inhaled in large enough quantities, could do this. Try as she might, though, she couldn't think of a point in recent memory when she might have crossed paths with that much of the vapors of a dangerous chemical.

Well, maybe she'd forgotten inhaling the stuff. There was no other explanation! It wasn't like she could be pregnant or anything; she was on the Pill and besides, pregnant women don't just suddenly get sick all at once . . . do they? She realized angrily that she didn't know. She could always look it up on the internet at work or home, but surfing was recorded at work and Grissom was always around at home. 

She could ask someone, she supposed, but that was the absolute _last_ thing she wanted to do. Who would she ask, anyway? Catherine? Hah, the woman would have "Sara's pregnant" rumors spread all overt the building before the night was over. She could ask Doc Robbins; she knew that she could at least trust him, but he was too paternal and would probably be stuck on taking care of her.

Well, she certainly couldn't ask one of the guys. Grissom was out of the question to begin with, and Nick and Warrick, even assuming they had a clue about female biology, would be too surprised to help her. Besides, they were no better at secret-keeping than Catherine.

"Sara?"

Sara's head shot up at the sound of another voice and she assumed her best innocent look. "Uh, hi Catherine."

Before speaking, Catherine surveyed the situation. Sara had been sitting on the bench in front of her locker, elbows resting on her thighs and head in her hands. She'd straightened up when Catherine had entered the room, but there were signs of worry on her face and, even more obvious, it looked like she'd forgotten that she was only half-dressed.

The blonde readied her racket and launched the first conversational ball, an easy-to hit shot. "You ok?"

"Yeah!" Sara nodded vigorously. Her hair bobbed around her and she wore the fakest smile Catherine had ever seen. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just changing." 

"Changing," Catherine said slowly. Then, quickly changing tactics: "You been stuffing, Sara?"

Sara blinked. "What?"

"Stuffing. As in, tissues in your bra? Either that or you need to do some shopping, 'cause that thing doesn't fit you quite right anymore. Your cups runneth over," she added with a grin.

"Oh god," Sara moaned, but quickly recovered and began thinking of excuses. There weren't many to be found, though. She could say that yes, she was stuffing . . . no, bad idea. What about starting to whine about how she was getting fat . . . no, definitely not – that would make Catherine even more curious. There was always the clueless defense; she could look down and say, "oh, really? I had no idea" . . . no, that was the worst idea yet, because the older woman would take pleasure in proving it to her. 

Finally she realized that she was cornered and let out a big sigh. "Ok Cath, I surrender. I have a question for you."

Hmmm, Catherine thought. Was it really possible that what she suspected was true . . . and that Sara was willing to talk to _her_ about it? "Hey, what else am I here for but to instruct you young people," she said with a reassuring smile, and took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, facing Sara. "So spill, I'll answer whatever I can."

Sara was hesitant to speak. She hated this, needing other people's help. Someone upstairs must hate her to put her in fixes like this! "Before I ask you anything, you need to swear to me - and I mean _swear_ upon your mother's grave and your daughter's life – that this information will NOT leave this locker room."

"I promise. Sara, what _is_ this? What's wrong?"

"Ok I'm going to tell you some things that happened to me today, and I want you to give me your first impression of what could be the reason for them."

"Oookay."

Taking a deep breath, she began. "I've been having dizzy spells all day. One at home where I almost fell in the kitchen, and then I ended up falling asleep on the floor with the dog; and then again tonight when Nick and I went to get lunch."

Catherine sighed. "Did you forget to eat again?"

"No! Why does everyone keep asking me that? I eat, I eat plenty! Would you just listen to the rest of this before you start with your smartass comments?"

"Hey, sorry. Go on."

Sara didn't _want_ to go on, but she had gone this far, might as well finish it. "Then when Nick and I were driving back with everyone's food, his tuna sandwich smelled majorly nasty and I got nauseous. So I stuck my head out the window for a minute, got some fresh air. Then, when I closed it again, the smell was right back there. I had to make Nick pull over so I could throw up. And I wasn't carsick," she clarified. "It was the tuna.

"And now you just told me my boobs are too big for my bra. Cath, we're talking about _my_ boobs. Sara, the girl with the small ta-tas?"

"Ah." Catherine was afraid she could see where this was going. "And you want my first impression?"

Sara bit her lip. "Yeah."

"Then my first impression is that you and Grissom haven't been paying as much attention to certain things as you should have been."

"But we have!" Sara said insistently. "I take the pill exactly right . . . so there's no way that it could be . . . that. Right?"

Shaking her head, Catherine cast a look of mild amusement at the younger woman. "Oh, trust me, it's possible. That's how I got Lindsey." Her face softened as she took in the look of shock on Sara's face. "Hey, listen. It's just that nothing works perfectly all the time. Ok so let's take this piece by piece, ok?"

Sara nodded mutely, so Catherine kept talking. "You're on the Pill, but you're experiencing some of the first signs of pregnancy." They both jumped a little at the mention of the p-word. Catherine recovered first. "Now, have you taken a test or anything?"

"No! I only started getting all these problems today. I didn't think everything could just hit so suddenly. If I were pregnant, wouldn't I be feeling maybe a little bad one day, then maybe I'd get dizzy the next day . . .?"

"Nope. Once your body figures it out, everything goes wrong – and right – all at once." Hesitantly, Catherine put an arm around Sara's imperceptibly shaking shoulders. "Why don't we cut out a little early and go to my house, ok? That way you don't have to worry about having Grissom underfoot. We'll pick up a test on the way and get this figured out within an hour."

"Oh my god . . . what am I going to do if I am?" She was really beginning to shake now as the reality hit her. Pregnant? A baby? She had no idea what Grissom thought about having children of his own. Hell, she had no idea what _she_ thought of having children of her own. But reality was reality, she reminded herself, and stood up, straightening her shoulders. "Ok. Let's do it."


	94. Pinch me

"Uh, Sara . . ."

"Yeah, what Cath? Come on!"

"It would probably be good for you to put on a shirt first."

Sara looked down and verified that she was indeed still half-naked. "Oops." Grabbing the shirt dangling from her locker's hook, she tugged it on and quirked a smile. "Are pregnant women more ditzy, or is that just me?"

"Just you," Catherine said with a grin. "Now let's get out of here before anyone else catches you like this." She turned and headed for the door with Sara only a step behind her. They stopped long enough for Sara to leave Grissom a note saying she was going to breakfast with Catherine, then headed for the nearest pharmacy.

_Thirty minutes later . . ._

            "Mmm, I'm just gonna lay down for a little bit while we wait, Cath," Sara muttered, eyes already half closed. 

            Catherine cast an incredulous look at the woman curled up on her couch. They were waiting for the results of Sara's pregnancy test, and the girl was just going to take a nap while they waited for perhaps the most important information of her life? "Sara, who can sleep at a time like this?!"

            "Tired. Wake me up in ten minutes," was Sara's response, and then only a gentle snoring.

            Catherine shook her head in bemusement. Well, Sara had never done anything the traditional way, why expect her to start now? Also, the girl never slept, and Catherine knew that fatigue was an important sign of pregnancy.  

She started to bite her thumbnail nervously, then forced herself to stop. Sara, the prospective mother, was happily asleep and snoring . . . and Catherine, the helpful friend, was the one too nervous to think? She had to stop herself from laughing out loud and waking Sara when that thought hit her. Now _this_ was an interesting role reversal! Sinking down into an easy chair, she set her kitchen timer for ten minutes and laid her head back against the cushions.

Sara woke up within seconds when the timer rang shrilly ten minutes later. Or, at least, she half-woke up, enough to amuse Catherine with her muttering. "Turn it off, Gris. Five more minutes . . ."

With a snort, the older woman stood up and shook Sara's shoulder. "Wake up, Sidle," she said sternly. "Time to check that little stick that'll determine the rest of your life."

That got Sara up. She shot to a sitting position and stared at Catherine. "Oh god, I thought it was a dream . . . is it really ten minutes?

"Yep. Get up, into the bathroom, check it out."

With a sigh, Sara did as ordered, walking as slowly as possible. Catherine, still on edge, waited in the living room. When there was no sound from the bathroom after five minutes, she started to wonder if Sara had passed out and headed for the open bathroom door.

Sara hadn't passed out; she was leaning against the counter with the test in one hand, staring at it.

"Sara?" Catherine asked gently. "What does it say?"

"It says I . . . uh . . ." Seemingly unable to say the words, Sara turned the stick toward Catherine.

"Oh my god. You're going to have a _baby_, Sara! You're pregnant!"

Sara nodded. "Yeah. A baby. I just . . . don't know what to do from here."

Mother-mode kicked in and Catherine launched into action. "Let's go sit down, first of all." They returned to the living room and Catherine made sure Sara was within falling distance of the couch, then continued. "Ok, first you need to make an appointment with your gyno so you get it verified and get yourself checked out. Well no, before you do that you need to talk to Grissom. Have you guys ever talked about kids?"

"No. No, that's the problem. I have no idea what this means for us. I don't know how I even feel about a baby, let alone how Grissom is going to feel." She took a deep breath. "How did you tell Eddie?"

Catherine thought about this. "You know . . . I don't really remember. I think that he knew I was taking the test, so I just showed it to him. But I'm not really sure." She took a close look at Sara and abruptly ordered, "Sit."

Startled, Sara sat. "What the . .  why?"

"You're pale, my dear, and there's no way I'm scraping you off the floor if you faint."

"Oh." Sara was silent for a moment, then spoke again. "Help me, Cath. I don't know how to do this. What if he's angry? How do I even broach the subject?"

"Well," Catherine smiled, "it would be a good introduction to throw up on him. Might give him a hint." Checking Sara's expression, she sighed. "Ok, bad idea. Well honestly, Sara, we both know he likes and cares about kids. We've seen that on enough cases. I would think that his only real objections to having his own would be concern about you – you know you're hard enough to control when your hormones _aren't_ raging – and worries that he's too old."

"But how doI _tell_ him? Do I just walk in and go, 'Hi honey, how was your day, oh mine was okay, a and by the way we're having a baby'?"

"Works for me. No, I'm serious," she said, taking in Sara's annoyed expression. "The longer you put it off and the more elaborate the plans you make, the harder it's gonna be. My suggestion is that you just spit it the hell out."

Sara groaned. "You're no help!" Flopping back down onto the couch, she threw an arm over her eyes. "I can't believe this. This is not happening. This cannot be happening."

Her arm was forcefully removed from where it was resting. "Deal with it, Sara," Catherine said harshly. "Denial is not going to help you with this. You need to accept the fact that you two are going to have a baby and accept the fact that you need to tell Grissom ASAP. As in, now," she added in case Sara hadn't gotten the hint.

"Unghhh," was Sara's response. She rubbed her forehead in a very Grissom-like gesture, then sighed. "I know, you're right. This is just completely overwhelming." She frowned. "I'm going to need you for the next nine months, aren't I."

"Probably. But hey, I'm not so bad, and I can lend you clothes that'll save you a shitload of money. Think of me as your . . . pregnancy professor or something."

"Bad joke, Cath," Sara said with a small smile. Standing up, she gave Catherine an awkward bob of the head, looking like she wanted to hug the blonde but was too apprehensive, and gathered up her stuff. "Real bad. But I'll just have to put up with you, I guess." She shook her head in amazement. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Good luck, Sara. Don't worry so much, I think he'll be happy."

"God, I hope so."


	95. With arms wide open

Grissom was eating something when Sara walked in the front door of their house, and her first thought was, "Oh god, don't let it be tuna." After a few more steps she recognized the scent of eggs mere seconds before her stomach did.

Grissom's first view of Sara that afternoon was of her hurtling toward the bathroom. "Damn," he said under his breath, no longer able to pretend that he didn't think she was sick, and followed her and the sound of her retching toward the bathroom.

"Sara?" He pushed open the half-closed door and found her in a familiar position: sitting on the floor with the outer side of the bathtub supporting her back. He quickly took another step into the room. "Please tell me you're just hungover again," he implored.

Sara lifted her head from where it had been resting on her knees and held out a hand to stop his approach. "Just . . . stay over there. For your own safety and cleanliness."

"S_afety_? Sara, what the hell's going on here?" More concerned about her than about himself, he took another step forward, putting himself squarely in front of her, and squatted down until they were face-to-face. "Tell me what's wrong," he demanded, as sternly as he could manage.

One of Sara's hands was rubbing her stomach, the other was still held out toward him, and she managed again, "Grissom . . . get away. Last chance."

"I'm not going anywhere!" 

Two seconds later, his shoes were wearing the contents of Sara's stomach. Sara, eyes still shut and tearing, muttered, "Told you to move." 

After a few seconds and a few deep breaths, she opened her eyes and Grissom thought he could see amusement lurking in them. He slipped off his shoes, thankful that he'd been wearing sneakers and not dress shoes, and put them into the bathtub, then turned the hot water on them. That done, he returned to his former position standing over Sara. "What's so funny about you being sick and throwing up on me?"

The outrage in his voice forced out of her the laugh she'd been trying to restrain. In between bouts of giggles, she managed, "Cath . . . introduction . . . like she said!" On the edge of hysteria, she laid her head back against the tub and kept laughing.

"Hey!" More worried than ever, Grissom jerked her up to a standing position, forcing her to face him. "Hey!" he tried again, but got no response. Taking a deep breath and hating himself, he gave Sara's shoulders a hard shake, making her head snap back.

She stared at him for a moment, laughter gone. "Um . . . thanks. I needed that." Grissom did not look at all pleased, she noticed. Well damn, too bad for him because he was going to be dealing with this problem too within the hour. "I need to talk to you. Kitchen?" Thinking better of that, she corrected herself, "No, bedroom."

Grissom blinked. "Sure," he ventured, and followed his housemate out of the bathroom. He watched her settle herself on the bed, legs crossed Indian-style and hands gripping each other tightly in front of her breasts. "Tell me."

"Uh." Now that she had him in here, all intelligence had fled and she stared at him blankly.

"Sara!"

"Oh! Oh, yeah. Um, well . . . first thing I'll tell you is that I didn't throw up because I'm sick."

"You didn't? Then you _are_ hungover, why didn't you just tell me?"

"Not hungover either," she told him with a weak grin. "It was the, uh . . . eggs."

Grissom didn't get it. "What? The _eggs_? What was wrong with them?"

"They smelled like eggs," she explained without explaining anything at all. Seeing that he didn't get it, she sighed. The man was a freaking genius, and he wasn't following the hints. Damn, she hadn't wanted to have to actually _say_ it. "I also got sick on the way back from picking up lunch with Nick. That time it was tuna. And Catherine pointed out to me this morning that my bra was suddenly too small."

Grissom was still looking at her blankly. "Damnit, Gil, are you not _getting_ this? I'm _pregnant_!"

His jaw dropped. "You're WHAT?"

"Pregnant," she whispered. "I didn't do this on purpose, believe me! It's your fault too!"

"Wait, wait," Grissom stuttered. "You're pregnant. We're going to have a baby? And you're afraid I'm going to _blame_ you for this?"

"Yes, yes, and sort of."  She uncrossed her legs and let herself fall onto her back on the bed. "A baby. Yeah. And I have no idea if you want kids. But whether you do or not," she added heatedly, "I do, and this is my child, and I'm not giving her up."

A moment of silence, and when Grissom spoke, it was so quietly that Sara could barely hear what he was saying. "I would never ask you to do that. I would never do that to begin with!" And then, louder, "I can't believe this. We're going to have a baby! This is absolutely amazing!" He jumped up from the bed, dragging her with him, and started waltzing a very confused Sara around the bedroom.

"Hold on!" she said after being spun three times. "Don't be twirling the nauseous pregnant woman around so much, it's dangerous for the well-being of your clothing." She gave him a smile to lighten the tone of what she was about to say, bit her lip and ventured, "So you're . . . happy? You want to do this?"

"Hell yes, Sidle! You just made me the happiest man in Las Vegas!" He wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug and started firing questions at her. "How do you know? What were you saying about Catherine? When are you due? Does anyone else know?"

Finally relaxing completely, Sara grinned. "I know because the test said so, and because I'm throwing up all over the place, for god's sake! And Catherine," she had to laugh again here, "Catherine said the best way to tell you would be to throw up on you. And sure enough, I did. But you, Mr. Genius, didn't get it!" She enjoyed watching Grissom turn red at that statement. "And . . . what else? Oh, due date – I have no idea. I just took the test this morning with Cath, so I need to make a doctor's appointment to get all that stuff figured out. And yes, Catherine knows, and no, no one else has a clue, though I think Nick's worried about me because he knows I threw up."

Grissom released her and put a hand to his forehead like a fairytale heroine. "Oh my god!" he said again, and let himself fall backward onto the bed with a huge grin covering his face.


	96. The Rising

Grissom looked nervously at the waist-high examining table standing in the middle of the room. "You have to get on . . . that?" he asked Sara, with a horrified look. "It looks like some sort of torture device!"

"Yeah, well, it feels like one too," she assured him, then couldn't resist grinning and adding, "I keep telling you, this is all your fault." 

Tugging awkwardly at the paper gown wrapped around her, she groaned. "And the clothes suck too," she said on a sigh. "I can't stand these things. I'm skinny and I _still_ can't get it on and make it cover my ass. I think they make them that way on purpose. You can never be comfortable when you know your whole backside is hanging out."

Grissom seized first on her joking assignment of blame. "Hey, what happened to your 'two to tango' philosophy?" He shook his head, laughing. "And you're right," he said with a leer, "it doesn't cover your butt. I can't believe women voluntarily do this to themselves twice a year." Despite the joking tone, he knew that both he and Sara were terribly nervous. 

"You know the doctor can't really tell us anything about the baby at this point except that it exists," Sara said, changing the subject for her own benefit as much as Grissom's. "This is just the first check-up in what I'm sure is going to be a long line of them. And," she added, an evil gleam in her eye, "you're coming to every single one. If I have to, you have to!"

"Of course, sweetheart. Wouldn't miss it for the world. Well . . . except for the table part."

Sara's response was cut off by the opening of the door. "Hello, folks," said a cheery-faced woman who couldn't have stood higher than Sara's shoulder. "I'm Dr. Franks," she added, holding out her hand to shake Sara's. "And you're Sara?"

Sara nodded. "Yeah and this is Gr- um, Gil."

Taking no notice of Sara's slip, Dr. Franks smiled warmly and spoke again. "Nice to meet you both. I'm glad you were willing to come, Gil; it seems to make the mothers much more comfortable when they're sure that the fathers are suffering through these exams also. Please, both of you call me Ruth. Dr. Franks is too formal for this sort of atmosphere, I always say." She offered another smile in an attempt to put both future parents at ease. "This is your first, I see," she said, looking at Sara's information sheet.

Sara nodded. "Yeah. We're a little, uh . . . apprehensive."

"Oh, don't be. I know this is the least pleasant part of the whole thing so far, but I'll try to make it as easy as possible. You're not the first to be caught by surprise by the whole rigmarole. Now, Sara, did the nurse take your blood and urine samples?"

A silent nod from Sara, who was beginning to worry her bottom lip hard enough that Grissom could tell she'd regret it tomorrow. She gripped Grissom's hand tighter and inched toward him.

"Ok, and we're pegging your due date at around February 14th, guys. A Valentine's baby, good for you! Now, let's start with the internal examination. Sara, if you'd take a seat up here," the doctor said, patting the cushioned part of the table. "And Gil, this is your chance to escape if you need to. You can either wait in the reception area or you can stay in here are be the moral support. Which would you like to do?"

Grissom blinked, caught by surprise. Before he could open his mouth, though, Sara cut in. "Oh, he's sure as hell staying in here." She gave him a sweet smile just daring him to contradict her.

"Right. In here," Grissom muttered.

Dr. Franks grinned. "You two have a healthy relationship, I see. Now, onward."

Grissom spent the next eight minutes attempting to not cover his eyes. This sort of thing made him very, very happy that he'd been born male. He listened keenly, mentally noting everyone of importance, and tried to keep Sara from noticing his averted gaze. Finally, he heard the snap of a rubber glove.

"Ok, Sara, you can breathe again; no more of those until the third trimester if everything goes well. I'll leave for a few minutes so you can get dressed, then we'll start with the medical history and physical checkup." With that, the doctor offered them another smile and left the room.

Sara made a leap for her clothes. "Oh thank you god. I never want to wear one of these things again for the rest of my life!" She glanced at Grissom's drawn face. "Hey, I'm supposed to be the panicky one here. Better get used to it, bugman."

Embarrassed, Grissom focused his gaze on Sara's face. "How do you feel?"

"Doing ok so far," she offered reassuringly. "The worst part's over. I think you enjoyed it even less than I did. Yeah," she grinned, "I saw you shutting your eyes."

Grissom turned bright red. "Er . . . sorry." 

He was saved from having to converse any further about his weakness by the doctor's re-entrance. "Ok," she chirped, "let's do the medical histories for both parents. Sara, you first."

This was all news to Grissom, and he listened carefully as Sara described the heart disease that had killed her great-grandfather and her mother's breast cancer, which was now in remission.

"You have a remarkably healthy family, Sara. And Gil, I'll ask you to answer the same questions." The doctor launched into her interrogation again. "And history of heart disease? Diabetes?"

Grissom's uncles had asthma, but his family, too, was remarkably healthy . . . until they reached the hearing disorders section. "Any history of deafness or chronic ear infection?"

Sara reached out to squeeze Grissom's hand and they exchanged a look. "Yes," he said a little shakily. "There's a strong incidence of otosclerosis in my mother's side of the family. She, her sister, and I all suffer from it."

Dr. Franks stopped for a moment, clearly taken aback by his answer to a question she probably considered a formality. "Otosclerosis?" she asked after gathering her thoughts. "That is hereditary, you're right. But you don't appear to be deaf, Gil."

"Uh, no. I'm not, at least yet. But my hearing fades in and out and I've been diagnosed with the condition." He paused uncomfortably. "Is that the end of the medical history for me?"

"Yes indeed," Dr. Franks said, smiling again. "Now we just need to check out Sara's current condition and then you two can be on your way." She turned toward a scale in the corner of the room. "Sara, let's get your height and weight."

It was Sara's turn to be nervous; she knew what the doctor would say, and she was right. "Hmm," the doctor murmured. "You're 5'8½", and you weigh 128. You're quite underweight, Sara."

"Yeah," Sara sighed. "I know. It's not that I don't eat, trust me. Gil has me on a firm schedule of large meals because he thinks the same thing."

"Okay, well, judging by where you are now, I'm going to ask you to try to gain about four pounds a month, possibly a little more. We're going to aim for you to put on 35 pounds by the time you deliver."

Grissom couldn't help tossing a smug smile at Sara and saying, "I'll take care of that, Ruth, I promise."

"Good, good," the doctor laughed, and moved on to checking Sara's blood pressure and pulse, both normal. "Well that's all for today, guys. Let's schedule to see you again in a month to gauge your progress, Sara."

Sara agreed and they were ushered out into the waiting room, where she made another appointment for the date the doctor had suggested. 

As they climbed into the car, Sara gave Grissom a cautious look. "Well? What do you think?"

"I think I'm going to feed you even more than I've been feeding you," he said with a smile, watching her lean the passenger seat backwards so she was closer to lying down.

"_Besides_ that, jerk!"

"Besides that . . ." he said slowly. "Besides that . . . I think I need to look into scheduling my surgery."

Sara, who had been relaxing in her nearly-prone position, shot up to a sitting position again, giving him a close look. "You're going to do it? Seriously?"

Grissom bit his lip. "If it were just you and me, I'd probably still be debating it. But I don't want to have a child and not be able to hear his or her coos, cries, first words. So I'm going to do it." He gave her a quick look. "Do you . . . think that's a good idea?"

Sara rubbed his shoulder. "You know I've been hoping you'd get it, but I think that you couldn't have found a better reason to make your own decision. And I'm glad I won't be the only one getting woken up in the middle of the night when the baby cries!"


	97. Why you wanna give me a runaround?

Sara was having happy dreams. Right now, she was on the beach by her parents' home in California, taking a romantic walk with Grissom. They were discussing baby names, and occasionally Newton spoke up with a good suggestion.  There were also elves and fluffy bunnies dancing around them and singing the Barney song as they walked.

"Sara," a soft voice said, and Sara managed to cock open one eye and note that Catherine was leaning over her. Leaning over her? A quick reality check revealed that she was lying down on the couch in the break room.

"Oh, damn. I fell asleep again, didn't I," she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yep. But don't sweat it, you're allowed to be tired as hell." Catherine smiled with true warmth. "Now, get up before Grissom sees you and tries to send you home again."

"Ugh," Sara moaned, sitting up. "He's way too overprotective of me." She patted her slightly-larger-than-usual belly. "I keep telling him I'm fine; only problem I'm having with being pregnant is carrying this little load around."

Catherine patted her shoulder, privately wondering how Sara managed to be this cheery. When she'd been pregnant with Lindsey, something like what she'd just said to Sara would have been cause for World War III. "Well, it _is_ Grissom we're talking about, here. You're lucky he isn't tying you down at home to keep you from coming in."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm only four months pregnant, and he's already got me doing as much desk work as he can bribe me into." With a sigh, Sara stood up and stretched, arching her back to try to get the kinks out. "Alright, so what's up? Why'd you wake me up?"

"Team meeting in here in fifteen minutes," Catherine supplied. "I figured you wouldn't want to be caught asleep to begin with, let alone with those pants unbuttoned. I _told_ you," she added, "to start wearing the elastic-waist ones I gave you, but nooo, you're stuck on wearing your own until you can't possibly get them zipped anymore, and then you'd rather go naked than start wearing maternity pants . . ."

"Ok, ok, give it a break, _Mom_," Sara laughed, fixing her pants. "I'm up, I'm buttoned, and I promise to wear the elastic ones tomorrow." She hated elastic-waist pants with a burning passion, but she'd already lost this argument to the older woman once under threat of Catherine telling Grissom, and she didn't care to lose it a second time.

Nick suddenly appeared in the doorway and both women jumped when he spoke. "Hey guys! Whatcha doing?"

Catherine gave a quick once-over to Sara, whose back was currently to Nick, and gave a slight nod to indicate that Sara was back to normal-looking. "Eh, just girl talk, Nicky-boy. You wanna talk about periods with us?"

"Erm . . . no. I just wanted to bring Sara some lunch; Greg told me you haven't eaten all day."

Sara had to hide a grin when she heard Catherine say under her breath, "Please don't let it be tuna or eggs!"

"What'd you get me?" she asked innocently. 

"Egg salad, I know that's one of your favorites." He smiled widely, proud that he'd remembered something he could use to please her.

Even the mention of eggs had been off limits in the Grissom-Sidle-Willows triangle for the past few months, and for good reason. When Nick brandished the sandwich and started toward her, Sara felt the nausea rising. Without a word, she pushed past both of her friends and bolted for the ladies room.

Nick stared after her, then turned to Catherine. "Enough, Cat. Tell me what's going on with her. She pukes when I have tuna, she runs away when I bring her egg salad, and she's fallen asleep on every flat surface in the lab. It's like she's pregnant or something," he said with a laugh to indicate how ridiculous _that_ idea was.

Catherine was silent for a moment, mulling over her options. Despite the doctor's assurances, Sara's morning sickness hadn't gotten any better, she had indeed fallen asleep almost everywhere, and she was starting to show.  The boys would have to find out soon anyway, but she wasn't sure it was her place to tell them. So she compromised with herself. Nodding vigorously to indicate a "yes", she said to Nick, "I can't tell you that, Nick. Why don't you ask Sara yourself." She slanted her eyes toward the bathroom, then gave him a meaningful look.

Nick gaped openly at her as understanding hit him. "You're . . . she's . . ."

Catherine shook her head and said deliberately, "_I_ didn't tell you anything, Nick. If you think that's the reason, it must just be that you put the clues together." With that, she turned her back, dismissing him, and began re-arranging the couch cushions Sara's nap had disturbed.

Nick, still shell-shocked, stumbled out of the room toward the ladies room. He pushed open the door, listening for Sara, and stepped inside, only to be greeted by a screech from one of the lab techs. "Nick!" the woman yelled. "This is the _ladies_ room! Get out!"

He heard a cough and a choking sound from one of the bathroom stalls. "Sorry Anne," he muttered, "just checking up on Sara." The woman gave him a dirty look, dried her hands and tossed the paper towel at him, then left huffily.

"I'm fine!" came from the stall that had issued the coughing a few seconds earlier. "I'm fine, you can go, Nick."

"Yeah right, Sara. I'm locking this door and you and I are both staying in here until you spill everything. Either you've got some horrific disease you don't want us to know about, or you're pregnant. Which is it?"

The stall door swung open to reveal Sara, who was alternately giving him vicious looks and wiping her mouth with a piece of paper towel. "None of your business."

"Sure as hell _is_ my business, girl. Every time I talk to you, you throw up," he said, faking a hurt look, "so I wanna know if it's just me that's repulsive, or if you have a reason."

Sara sighed and walked toward the sinks, which also placed her closer to Nick. Ignoring his protests, she washed her hands and rinsed her mouth, then turned to face him. "C'mere."

"What?" Nick asked, suddenly alarmed. "No way, you're gonna kill me if I come any closer."

Sara shrugged. "That's your problem. You said you wanted to know, but hey, if you're afraid to find out the answer to your question it's no skin off my nose."

Nick grumbled, but was unable to resist the lure of information. The first thing Sara did when he was within arm's reach was reach out and twist his ear hard enough to make him let out a girlish squeak. Having gotten her revenge, she then released his ear and grabbed his hand.

"I need my hands . . . I can't be a handless CSI!" he begged, only half-joking.

"Shut up." Sara tugged on his hand again, drawing him a step closer to her, then pressed both of their hands to her stomach. The baby wasn't moving yet, but there was a definite roundness there that Nick couldn't avoid feeling.

"Oh my god, you are."

"Yeah," she said with a small smile. "I am. But don't tell anyone, ok? Me, Grissom, and Catherine are the only ones who know. I'm only four months."

Still processing this information, Nick blinked. "You're pregnant. With a baby."

"Yes, genius. I am indeed pregnant with a baby, and not a gerbil or a whale or something."

"Then Grissom . . . you . . . oh my god," he said again, unable to believe this development.

Sara laughed, enjoying his discomfort. "Yeah, Grissom. This is definitely his fault too."

Finally getting some measure of control over his wits, Nick let out a whoop and scooped Sara up in a big hug. "You're gonna have a BABY!" Them as quickly as he had picked her up, he set her back on her feet. "Oh man . . . is it ok  to hug you like that? I don't want to, uh, crush anything important."

"Other than my boobs, which feel like someone took a steamroller to them – that isn't your fault, by the way – there's not much you can crush. According to my doc, pregnant women are very well-insulated in the necessary baby-related areas."

Reassured, Nick hugged her again and kissed her cheek. "I'm so happy for you guys! I can't believe this, we'll have another rug rat running around the lab in, hmm, 5 months. You'll let me baby-sit, right?"

"Whoa, Nick, calm down," Sara grinned. "Let's worry about me actually _having_ the baby before I start setting up a baby-sharing schedule with all you guys."

"Ok, ok," he said. "But when's the wedding?"

Sara blinked. "Uh . . . what wedding?"

"Your wedding, silly. You and Gris _are_ gonna . . ." he cut himself off when he caught Sara's dangerous look. "Get married," he finished in almost a whisper. "You're not?"

Sara shrugged. "I guess we probably will, eventually, but I don't think the fact that I'm pregnant should be a reason for a lifetime commitment like marriage."

Nick stared at her for a minute, then decided that he wasn't going to be the one to point out how absurd that statement was. "Right. Sorry. Well, uh," he continued, giving her another hug, "congratulations either way. I really can't tell Warrick and Greg?"

Sara smiled. "I'm going to tell everyone, probably today or tomorrow. Can't hide it much longer," she said, gesturing to her stomach.

"Ya got _that_ right," Nick muttered, then made a quick escape from the room.


	98. Under pressure

Ten minutes later, the entire team was in the break room, with the notable exceptions of Grissom and Sara. Nick and Catherine sat on the couch Sara had recently vacated, looking smug, while Warrick cast the pair dirty looks, knowing that they knew something he didn't. Brass was looking around curiously, wondering why he'd been invited to this meeting, while Greg was looking around nervously, wondering the same thing. 

All at once, Nick and Catherine, who had been in a quiet conversation and were closest to the door, both sat up straight. "Here they come," Catherine hissed, causing the other three occupants of the room to assume similar positions.

"Don't bother," Warrick said after a moment, pointing into the hallway where the pair stood. "They're too caught up in signing."

"So they are," Catherine said exasperatedly. "Wish I knew what the hell they were saying."

What they were saying, in fact, was being signed for a reason; Sara and Grissom were having a mild argument about whether to tell everyone about the baby today or some other day.

"Nick and Catherine already know," Sara signed, lips pursed in annoyance. "Let's just tell the other three." She shook something unidentifiable that looked like a piece of paper at Grissom.

Grissom shook his head. "No, Sara, please. Can't we keep this private for a while longer?"

"No!" she signed back with a scowl reflecting the sentiment. "I'm telling them. They'll be happy. And face it, they need to know why I've been so weird lately."

Grissom, knowing he was beat, let out a sigh, then nodded and said out loud, "Fine."

Sara gave him a grin that nearly lit up the whole hallway and patted his cheek. "See? I'm always right, you should just give up now," she responded, also using her voice.

"Hey!" Warrick shouted from inside the room. "We're glad you're always right and stuff, but would you two just get in here and tell us what's going on?"

Grissom inclined his head at Sara and gave her a gentle push toward the doorway. When she turned back toward him and gave him The Look, he grinned and signed, "Your show, Sara. I'm just going to smile and nod."

"Hmmph." Standing in front of the room and facing five of her colleagues, Sara suddenly felt like she was back in college, giving an in-class presentation. "Mmm," she said, working on forming coherent words. "Uh, hi guys."

Brass, who was getting rather impatient, said in a schoolboy voice, "Good morning, Miss Sidle." He gave her a sardonic nod, then continued, "Can we get on with this? I do have this thing called a job . . ."

"Sure," she told him sweetly, and without saying another word, handed him the mysterious sheet of paper, which was actually photo stock and not paper. Then, hands on her hips, she waited.

Brass gave the thing a bewildered look. "X-ray?" When Sara shook her head no, he growled, "I have no idea what this thing is. Here, Greg, you take it." 

Greg took the sheet from the policeman and gave it a close look. After a few seconds, he looked up at Sara, eyes wide. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Mmmmmhmm."

"What?" Warrick yelled, having run out of patience. "What is this freaking thing that's making you both so excited?"

Without a word, Greg passed him the item in question. It took only seconds for Warrick to process what he was looking at. "Sara . . ." he said slowly, looking more closely at the paper, "is this a _sonogram_?"

Sara nodded.

"And," he continued, still speaking slowly and deliberately, "I assume that this particular sonogram is supposed to tell us something." He glanced at Catherine and Nick, who were both grinning like idiots, then turned back toward Sara and Grissom. "Are you guys having a _baby_?"

Sara chose not to respond, figuring she'd done her part. She cast an expectant look at Grissom, found him staring fixedly at a spider crawling across the ceiling, and smacked him on the shoulder.

Grissom jumped. "Wha?"

Raising her voice a little, Sara said, "Warrick wants to know if we're having a baby. Why don't you answer him, dear."

Grissom groaned. "I thought I told you that this was your show."

"Suck it up, bugman. I did my part of the show, now it's your turn. Don't act like I got myself into this alone."

Catching the sympathetic looks the men in the room were giving him, Grissom shrugged. "Okay, Sara. Yes, Warrick, Sara is pregnant. We are indeed having a baby." 

His pronouncement was greeted by silence as Warrick, Brass, and Greg all stared at the pair in the front of the room in disbelief. Brass recovered first, and managed a smile. He stood up and reached over to clap Grissom on the shoulder. "Congratulations, my friend." With the ice broken, Warrick and Greg both copied Brass's actions, while Nick and Catherine approached and gave their more subdued congratulations.

Sara watched this with annoyance. "Hello!" she finally spat. "He's not the one doing the hard work here! Am I invisible or something?" She crossed her arms in front of her and glared at Warrick and Greg, Brass having escaped when he saw what was coming. "Well?" she demanded.

"Hey," Greg protested, "don't freak out on us, Sara. We're not insulting you. Man," he said, elbowing Nick in the side, "I guess what they say about pregnant chicks is right. Moody, moody, moody." Nick quickly distanced himself from this blasphemy, since he apparently valued his hide more than Greg did.

Sara's face was turning red, but she didn't tear a hole in Greg as the room expected. Eyes wide and hurt, she sniffled, then rubbed at the tears that had suddenly appeared in her eyes. Unwilling to display this weakness in front of the entire room, she turned and fled without a word.

Grissom cast an alarmed look at Catherine, who nodded toward the doorway, telling him to follow Sara. Having this assurance, he then turned on Greg. "What the hell are you doing, Sanders?  Maybe in the future you could try for a little tact!" He gave the room a large a dirty look, then wheeled around and went after Sara.


	99. Another one bites the dust

He found her in his office, curled up in a chair that sat against the wall. She was talking to his spider again, or rather, making noises at the spider. He couldn't understand what she was saying through her tears. At least Fluffy was still in her cage, he thought idly.

"Sara?"

A quick sniff, then a more determined sniff. He saw her hand go up to wipe her face. "Yeah, Gris. I'm fine." She sniffled again. "Sorry." Wiped her eyes, sniffled.

Grissom approached her cautiously. "Greg's sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I yelled at him – I think I put the fear of god into him." He reached out a hand and gently pushed her dangling hair away from her face. "Shh, it's ok. He didn't mean it."

She looked him in the eye for the first time since he'd come in. "I don't care if he meant it or not. He was just teasing, I don't understand why suddenly I'm crying hysterically when someone makes a little joke at my expense. I never used to!" Taking a shaky breath, she sat up straight and said determinedly, "I'm ok. No more crying for me."

"It's normal, you know," Grissom told her. "I was reading – well, I bought – a book on pregnancy, and it says that it's expected that pregnant women may suffer from mood swings, among other things." 

"You bought a book? I already have three, you could have read those!"

He ducked his head, embarrassed. "Yeah, I just kinda . . . wanted one for myself."

Sara grinned. "Aw, that's cute, in a twisted sort of way. Like you want a souvenir from the baby's torturing me."

"I thought you said you were doing fine," he said suspiciously. "You told me the only problem was that he was heavy." 

Sensing that she was treading in dangerous territory, Sara stood up and wrapped her arms around Grissom, laying her head against his shoulder. "I _am_ doing fine. You said it yourself, this stuff is normal." She tilted her head back slightly and looked up at him. "Trust me, I'm fine. You live with me, you'd know if I was suffering. Well, suffering other than the throwing up." 

Grissom frowned and set her at arm's length. "Yeah, why don't we talk about that. Ruth said it was supposed to have gone away by now." Frowning deeper, he added after a moment's thought, "And besides, I may live with you, but that's all I have of you."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" She could feel the dangerous pendulum that was her mood swinging, but felt no urge to fight it. "Is this going to be another conversation where you tell me you do all the giving and all I do is take?"

"No! No, that's not what I meant."

"Good."

"I just meant that, you know, we have the baby coming now, and I just thought that maybe . . ."

In a deceptively quiet voice, Sara coaxed, "Thought that maybe what, Grissom?"

"Well, we have the baby, and . . ."

"Spit it out, Gil. Stop with the 'we have the baby' shit."

"Oh. Um." He stopped, taking stock of his situation. Sara's face was expressionless, though she sounded impatient. He decided that that was a good sign. She wasn't crying anymore, and he figured now was as good a time as any to broach this subject. "Well, if you'd let me finish . . . I was going to say that now that we have the baby, don't you think we should maybe, uh, well . . . get married?"

Sara's eyes widened. "Ex_cuse_ me?"

"Get married. Wedding, white dress, flowers, the whole bit."

"Jesus, Grissom!" Sara shouted, startling him. "Have you been plotting with Nick or something? Why does everyone suddenly want us to get married just because we're having a baby?"

That question sounded too simple, he thought. "Uh . . . because we're having a baby?"

At top volume now, she screeched, "No!" 

Unknown to the couple in Grissom's office, a crowd was gathering outside the door. Warrick and Catherine each had an ear pressed to a flat surface; Warrick's to the door glass and Catherine's to the window. "Dude!" Nick hissed into Warrick's ear, making the taller man grunt and twitch a shoulder. "Did she just say my name? Oh god," he moaned, "I'm in such deep shit."

Catherine turned away from the window long enough to give him a threatening look. "Yeah, you are – and you're gonna be in deeper shit if you don't shut up and let us listen!"

Greg suddenly appeared around a corner. "Hey, what's up guys?"

"Shhhh!" ordered four voices, then Nick looked back and whispered, "They're fighting," gesturing toward the door.

"Oh no," Greg moaned quietly. "Guys, do you really think this is a good idea? I mean, we – well ok, I – already got bitched at once tonight, do we really need to do it again?"

"Greg!" Warrick hissed. "Shut _up_!"  With a shrug, Greg gave in to his curiosity and took up a position over Catherine's left shoulder, and all five of them went back to listening.

". . . good reason!" Sara was yelling. "This is 2003, not 1953, Gil! You do not get married because you got knocked up anymore!"

"That's not what I'm saying, Sara. If you'd just listen . . ."

"I _am_ listening! You're giving me the stupidest reason in the world for getting married. This baby is going to have two parents whether we get married or not, and I happen to think that there's no need to go through all that bullshit just because you think it's proper, or more romantic, or whatever the hell it is you're thinking!"

Outside, Nick pulled away from the crowd. "Oh no, poor Grissom. I already got a piece of her mind on that particular topic, and I backed down just as quick as you can imagine. Man's gonna get his ass kicked in a big way."

Catherine singsonged, "Someone's gonna be sleeping on the couch tonight."

"I dunno, Cath," Warrick said with worry evident in his voice. "I'm thinking someone might be sleeping on the _sidewalk_ tonight, or else at one of our houses."

"He's SO not sleeping at my house," Catherine replied promptly. "I've already coaxed him through more than my share of his 'I'm depressed over Sara' sessions. One of you boys take him."

"Aw, guys," Greg said. "Be nice, the guy's trying to convince her to marry him and she's about to rip his balls off."

Nick interrupted Greg with a chuckle. "Well, that would certainly preclude them having another baby and having this argument again!"

"Shut up!" Greg told him, surprising everyone. "We should just . . ."

"Quiet!" Warrick ordered in a whisper that was as effective as if he had shouted. "I hear footsteps." The group quickly scattered to random points in the hallway, trying to look busy, and not a second too soon. Seconds later, Sara stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind her hard enough to shatter the glass that Warrick had been listening at a minute earlier.

Everyone but Sara jumped and spun around to look at the damage. Unfortunately for all involved, this caught her attention. "I know you guys were fucking listening!" she yelled. "Leave me the hell alone or you're all dead!" 

"Man," Warrick said quietly. "She _never_ curses around here."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't usually walk like that either," Nick reminded them, pointing at her retreating back. Having duly warned them, Sara had turned her back and begun a less-than-imperious waddle back toward the locker room.


	100. And so it goes

The drive home was made in eerie silence; Sara spent the ride staring out the window and giving off "don't touch me" vibes, while Grissom tried to concentrate on his driving and not the worry and anger that were warring within him.

Sara would have jumped out of the car when Grissom pulled into the driveway, but at the rate her belly was increasing, she wasn't jumping anywhere any time soon. She was going to be forced to let Grissom help her, she acknowledged, but that didn't mean that she had to like it. She settled for not allowing him to touch anything but her arm as he helped her out.

Grissom's patience was stretched so thin that he would have sworn it was no thicker than a micron or two. He gritted his teeth as Sara pulled away, calling on his last reserves to keep himself from snapping at her. She's pregnant, he reminded himself. It's the hormones, she can't help it.

On the heels of that thought was the knowledge that her hormones only affected how she reacted, not how she thought. If Sara told him that she didn't want to get married and she thought it was a stupid idea, it wasn't because of the baby.

Sara looked at Grissom's face out of the corner of her eye as they walked into the house. What was he thinking? Was he angry? Well if he was, that was just too bad. No way was she changing her mind and marrying him just because he thought she should for the baby's sake. In fact, she was completely insulted that he'd asked her to. What was she, a brood mare? He'd marry her so she could give him an heir or something? No way.

Grissom was looking back at her, she realized as she woke from her thoughts. "What?"

He looked away, quickly assuming an innocent expression. "What, 'what'?"

Ready to tear something apart to vent her frustration, Sara gave him a nasty look. "You were looking at me. Either tell me why, or let go of me." She tugged at her arm, which Grissom was still gripping, in demonstration. "Let me _go_, Grissom."

He hadn't realized he was still holding onto her. Giving their joined arms a distracted look, he muttered, "Sorry," and removed himself. Then, as he processed what she had said, his distraction turned into anger. "I was looking at you, _Sara_, because I'm surprised that you'll let me touch you, considering how much you hate me."

"I don't . . ."

He whirled to face her, finally allowing his feelings free rein. "Oh yeah? Then why'd you make such a big production of making sure everyone knew you wouldn't marry me? That certainly doesn't spell _love_ to me, Miss Sidle."

In the face of his open hostility, Sara's emotions did another of those full reversals she was coming to hate, and she was suddenly on the verge of tears. "I don't hate you," she said again quietly. Then, even more quietly, "I think . . . I don't think I should stay here tonight."

Grissom, who was concentrating on the fight he had been sure was coming, blinked. "What?"

Sara sighed, willing the tears to stay back at least until she could get out of the house. "I said that I don't think I should stay here tonight. I don't think we can . . . deal with each other right now." She swallowed. "I'll go stay with Catherine."

"You can't stay with Catherine, Sara," Grissom said snarkily. "She's got a daughter of her own to deal with without you whining to her."

Sara sucked in her breath, unable to believe he'd just said that. Closing her eyes for a moment to try to regain some composure, she tried again. "Then I'll stay with Nick. Or Warrick. Or Greg. None of them would mind having me '_whine_' for the night."

"You. Are. Not. Going. Anywhere."

"Yes, Gris, I am," she replied, suddenly feeling like she was watching this argument from somewhere on the sidelines. "Please just let me go. We can argue more tomorrow if you really want to."

He took hold of her arm again and pulled her toward him. "You're not leaving, Sara. If you don't want both of us in this house tonight, I'll leave. I promised you that the day you moved in here."

The reminder of his grand promises broke her last thread of resistance to the tears and they began to slip down her cheeks, unnoticed. At the same time, her voice took on more strength. "No. This is your house. I'm going." She yanked her arm out of his grip and began walking toward the door.

"Sara!" He grabbed her arm again, this time harder to keep her from escaping again. "You're staying. End of story." He gave her a little shake to emphasize the point.

Looking down at the hand squeezing her arm and then up at his set face, Sara could almost feel the blood draining out of her own face. There would be bruises tomorrow. "Please don't touch me," she managed in a voice that was, strangely, very polite. "This . . . isn't a good place right now."

Surprised at her tone, one that he'd never heard from her before, Grissom dropped her arm and stared. Sara didn't stay around to check his reaction, though. Moments after he released her, she fled through the front door as quickly as she could, not caring that was leaving with nothing but what she wore.

Grissom had no idea how long he stared at the door after he heard her car roar to life and then fade away. Probably five or ten minutes at least, he decided later, but at the moment it didn't matter. He couldn't believe what had just happened. He couldn't believe he'd held her tightly enough to hurt her. Giving his head a hard shake in an attempt to clear it, Grissom moved slowly toward the phone, checked the roster of his team members, and started dialing.

Elsewhere, Sara knocked on a door. When it was opened, she raised frightened eyes to the person who answered. "Hi. Can I, um," she stopped and bit her lip, "stay here with you? For tonight?" 

Her friend, knowing better than to question right now, simply nodded and pulled the door open wider.


	101. I've created my own prison

**A/N:** Apologies for the lag in posting these chapters. Ff.net decided to go completely spastic on me and not allow me to upload anything for a week. So now there are…hmm…nine new chapters at once for you all to enjoy!

**Further A/N:** I've recently received reviews accusing me of plagiarizing whole parts of this story from other G/S fanfic. I find this accusation not only extremely disturbing and malicious, but completely wrong. The story in question is one I have never read or seen, and I don't welcome having my reputation smeared by someone in a bad mood who decides they don't like my story. If you don't plan on reviewing honestly, please don't review.

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Grissom ripped a hand through his hair, then used the same hand to wipe the sweat off his face while he paced. Reaching the end of the room, he turned and began back toward the kitchen, where Catherine, Warrick, and Nick were gathered, all looking disheveled. As he watched, Nick yawned and slammed his hand over his mouth, trying to hide it.

Catherine put down the phone and shook her head. "You don't have _any_ idea where she is, Gil? Does she have friends around here? Did you try Greg or Bobby? Robbie? Anyone else from the lab?"

"I don't _know_, Cath! I called everyone I could think of. I even called the day shift people, for heaven's sake!" He stopped. "Do you think I should call her parents? Do you think Brass could track her cell?"

Warrick put a hand on Grissom's shoulder and said gently, "Hey, man, calm down. You're no help if you're freaking out. Concentrate!"

"He's right, Gris," Nick threw in. "We don't know as much about her as you do, so if anyone's going to come up with where she could be, it's gonna be you and not one of us." 

"_I don't know_!" Grissom hollered. "I don't know, I can't think while Sara could be wandering around the city getting robbed or killed."

"Gil, take a breath," Catherine ordered. "You are _not helping_. You're making things worse. And Sara's smart enough to not go to the dangerous areas. If she's walking, it's probably on the strip where there's lots of people."

"Yeah. Yeah!  One of you," Grissom said with new energy, pointing at Nick and Warrick, "go down there and drive around. See if you can find her. If you do, tell her . . . tell her she doesn't have to come home, I just want her to go with someone I know she'll be safe with."

"I'll do it," Nick said as he palmed his keys. "Keep your phones on, guys. If I find her, I'll call. Hell, if I don't find her, I'll call." He gave Grissom what he hoped was a reassuring smile and left.

Grissom resumed pacing. "Greg," he muttered. "Ecklie? No. Parents . . . California . . . brother? No." He wiped the sweat off his face again. "This isn't happening."

As he passed her, Catherine put out a hand and grabbed his shirt. "Stop pacing, Gris. You're making me nervous. Why don't you sit down and tell us what the hell 'this' is?" Hoping the material wouldn't rip, she used all her strength to drag him back to the kitchen table. "Sit, please. And calm down. Do you want a drink?"

"No!" Grissom jumped out of the chair she'd just pressed him into. "I can't just sit, Catherine. And if I have a drink then I can't go get her if I find her."

Catherine and Warrick exchanged worried looks. "What happened?" Warrick mouthed over Grissom's head, furrowing his brow in confusion. Catherine shook her head, indicating that she didn't know either.

"We had a fight."

Both of them looked down at Grissom, who had sunk back into the chair, amazed that he'd constructed a coherent sentence. "We know you had a fight," Catherine offered. "We heard it."

"No . . . another one. We had another fight when we got home."

"About what?" Catherine prayed that she wouldn't have to prompt him through the whole story; she didn't know if her nerves could take it, let alone his.

"About the same thing." He dropped his head into his hands, digging his fingers into his forehead. "About the baby and the . . . getting married. I told her she must hate me to do that. To turn me down like that, I mean."

While Grissom was staring at the table, Catherine jerked her head toward the refrigerator, hoping Warrick would get the hint. He did, and returned to the table a few seconds later with a can of beer. He popped it open and set it in front of Grissom. "Drink," he ordered, as though to a child. Automatically, Grissom did as ordered.

"Ok," Catherine continued, "so you had the same fight again. What happened between then and now that made Sara run out of the house?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said firmly. "It's not something I want you to know. It's not something I want myself to know."

When Catherine flung her head back in exasperation, Warrick smoothly took over. "Listen, Gris. Maybe you don't want to tell us, but if we don't know what _happened_, we can't extrapolate where she might have gone. I mean, it's not like you hit her, so just tell us and we'll see what we can do with it."

"No," Grissom acknowledged. "I didn't . . . hit her. But I might as well have."

"What?!" the two others said in unison.

Grissom jumped out of his chair again. "I'm calling Brass. He can put out an APB. He can try to trace her." He practically ran for the phone. Snatching it up, he dialed Brass's number, still reading off of the roster. "Jim. This is Gil. I need your help."

Brass's voice could be heard on the other end, firing questions. From what Catherine could hear, he sounded worried. Well, she would be too if Grissom called her and spoke that in the tone of voice he was using. She took a deep breath and decided she needed a break. She gave Grissom a pat on the arm and a smile and left the kitchen area, heading for Grissom's guest room, where Lindsey was asleep. 

"Yes!" Grissom was saying into the phone. "She's gone, Jim, and I can't find her, and you need to help me." A pause. "_Sara_! Who the hell else would I be this worried about? She ran away, I don't know where she is, I've called everyone I can think of. I need you to try to triangulate her cell phone, or get patrols to look for her car, or both. Do _something_, for god's sake!" After another pause, presumably Brass's assent, he slammed down the phone.

It rang again immediately and Grissom grabbed it. "Nick?" When the person on the other end spoke, he nearly dropped the phone. "Sara? Sara, where are you? Are you ok?"


	102. Without you I'm not ok

Sara hung up the phone and fell back into her chair, staring blankly at the wall. "I'm sorry, Sue," she said for perhaps the twentieth time that night. "I just didn't know where else to go, and I was so scared."

Susan Akers slid a cup of herbal tea in front of Sara, making reassuring noises. "It's fine, Sara. I'm glad I could help you. And you know, Ben always makes things safer when it comes to hiding from men."

Sara absently reached down and petted the big dog, who had his head on her lap. "I'm not hiding, exactly. It's just that . . . he never did that before. Did I show you my arm?"

Susan nodded. "It's not bad, Sara. I've done that to people by accident. You just grab too hard, and if the person has delicate skin, they get bruises in an hour or two." She wished there was something more she could say to reassure the woman in front of her. She'd been shocked when Sara appeared at her door that afternoon, but had welcomed her new friend warmly.

Sara shook her head. "I thought he was going to hit me. He was so angry . . . and my mind is so out of whack with this baby . . . I just thought he was going to hit me," she repeated. Ben, attuned to the fear coming from this new woman, licked her hand.

"Listen, you told me yourself that he's madly in love with you," Susan said firmly. "You told me that he knows about your past and he knows that he wouldn't want to lose you just because he got angry. Why don't you turn your phone back on? He might be calling right now, you know."

"He doesn't know about Donny. I didn't tell him that part. I don't want him to know." Sara looked, Susan thought, like a woman twice her age. Her face was bordering on haggard as the poisonous thoughts of the past whirled through her mind. 

"No. No, I can't turn it on," Sara added after a minute, as though she hadn't just acknowledged that Susan was the only person in Las Vegas who knew about Sara's last boyfriend in San Francisco. "I don't want to talk to him, and he's more likely to try to get the police to track me with it than to call me on it." She rubbed her forehead, trying to ward off the headache that was coming on. "I don't like not knowing what to do, Sue."

"Would it be so bad if he found you? I'm sure he's out of his head right now worrying about you. Besides, you called from this phone, he could always track it back through the phone company."

Sara shook her head and took a sip of the tea. "Uh-uh. He'd need either a warrant or a missing persons report to get that, neither of which he has or can get any time soon. I've only been gone about ten hours. That's not long enough to get the police officially involved."

Rubbing her dog's head, Susan frowned. "You've given this a lot of thought. It sounds to me like maybe, in the back of your mind, you want him to come find you."

"Scared," Sara muttered. "I don't trust him."

Opting for another tactic, Susan said, "Bullshit. You've been madly in love with the man since before I met you. You're having a baby with him. All he wanted was for you to marry him. Yeah," she said quickly when Sara opened her mouth, "he flew off the handle. Completely agree with you on that. But you know, I'm sure you've had nights where you just flipped out on him, and you didn't mean any harm. If you ask me," she finished, "you'd trust Grissom with just about anything, including your life." 

"Yesterday night I would have. You just don't get it, Susan. You don't understand how much he scared me."

"Oh _really_." Susan took a sip of her own tea and made a sour face. "_You_ are telling _me_ that I don't understand being afraid of a man? Are you forgetting the whole part about how we met?"

Sara shook her head helplessly. "I didn't mean that. I just don't know how to explain it. He promised me – _promised_ me – that he wasn't like all of them. He was so concerned with making me believe it, and then he went and did this. How could this happen? I gave up my damn apartment because I was so sure about him. Shoulda known better, for god's sake. My track record bites."

"Ok, I give up," Susan said on a sigh. "Maybe you need more time to process this, I don't know. You're welcome here as long as you need to stay, but you know you can't just escape your life forever, and you know you don't want to do that. You're _pregnant_, Sara. You can't spend the rest of your life hiding because Grissom threw a hissy fit one night."

No response from the other woman. Sara laid her head on the table and shut her eyes, savoring the coolness of the wood. Within a few minutes, she was dozing.

Finally, Susan got up and shook her shoulder gently. "Sara. You're falling asleep. Why don't you go get some sleep in the guest room, honey. You haven't slept all day," she said when Sara just moaned. "Come on. You need to get some major rest before that kid starts beating you up from the inside."

What finally roused Sara was Ben's bark. She jumped three inches off her chair, then blinked. "Wha?"

"You're going to bed, Sidle," Susan said authoritatively. "Come on, up ya go. I'll even let you have the dog while you sleep."

Sara groaned. "Can't sleep."

"Yes you can. You just were. I promise I'm not gonna call the police or anything while you're out, ok? You seriously need to sleep."

Acknowledging to herself that she was utterly exhausted, Sara relented. "Ok, Sue. Thanks. Can I really have Ben?"

Susan nodded. "Yep. He won't let anything get you." She watched as Sara made her slow way to the bedroom, Ben trailing her. When woman and dog were both out of sight, Susan sat back in her chair and started thinking. She wouldn't go behind Sara's back, she knew that, but she wished there was something she could do to fix this situation. Sara was terrified because of her past, not because of anything Grissom had done. What to do?


	103. Oh, I am an innocent man

"Found her," Brass said with a grin as he plodded into Grissom's house. "She – or at least her car – is out on the edge of the city. King Street, to be exact."

Grissom, who had been slumped on the couch, head spinning, jumped up and nearly hugged the older man, but quickly thought better of it. "Where on King Street? Is she staying with someone? Is she ok?"

"Hey, calm down for a minute." With the help of an exasperated Catherine, Brass managed to push Grissom back into a sitting position before he keeled over from shock. "Like I said, we found her car on King Street. It's parked in front of number 28, but that's no guarantee that she's in that house, or anywhere else in the vicinity. Maybe she dumped the car."

"I'll go get her." Grissom jumped up again.

"No you won't!" Catherine said sharply. "First of all, you can't drive anywhere. That migraine medicine nearly knocked you out. Second, it's the middle of the night and it wouldn't go over well if a bunch of police types stormed the house of an innocent person at 4AM. Third, you know she doesn't want to be found. She said that when she called."

"Do you not _get_ it?" Grissom asked bitterly. "I need to know where she is and that she's ok. I _have_ to know that, at the very least."

"Maybe you should worry about yourself right now, Gil. What would make you think that after whatever earth-shaking fight you guys had last night, you can appear in front of her and even get her to talk to you, let alone tell you something meaningful or come home with you?"

Grissom was silent as the reality of Catherine's statement hit him. "I don't know," he finally said, defeated. "Just hope, I guess. Stupid reason."

"Not stupid," Brass cut in when he saw the pain on his friend's face. "Not exactly. Ok, so you guys had a knock-down-drag-out last night. It's not the end of the world, and I happen to think that you're not wrong to think that after a day apart, you guys would be able to try to talk it out."

"Yeah," Nick said suddenly. "I'm with Brass on this. You guys need to talk, and Sara's never been afraid of fighting it out when it comes to something important to her." Nick's search for Sara had been fruitless, and he felt like he was useless to his friends. He needed to do something to help. "You know what?" He jangled his car keys. "I'll drive you over there. Just you and me, and we'll knock on the door real nice and see what happens."

"I don't think . . ." Catherine began, but was cut off by Brass.

"No, Catherine, I think Nicky's right. Let them go."

Grissom sighed. "I don't know. Maybe Catherine's right. Maybe she really doesn't want to see me." 

"Oh, come off it," Catherine muttered. "When was the last time you agreed with me when it came to Sara? You're wallowing again, Gil, and I'm not a big fan of that. Just go, get it out of your system."

The clock in her kitchen had just chimed five thirty when Susan heard the knock on her door. She quickly scanned her memory for any reason someone should be here this early in the day and came up with a blank. As she stood up to check things out, Ben came trotting out of the room where Sara still slept. He gave the door what Susan would have sworn a suspicious look, then walked to her side.

"Ok Bennie, now that we're all here, let's go figure out who the visitor is." Susan took a gentle grip on Ben's collar and led him toward the door. She checked the peephole first and nearly ran away to hide when she saw who stood on the front stoop: Grissom and one of those young guys who had been with Sara the night she was attacked.

She undid the deadbolt but left the chain on. "What?" she demanded, pulling the door open an inch. Ben put in his two cents with a deep growl.

The two men on the other side of the door exchanged cautious looks. "Hi, ma'am," the man who wasn't Grissom began. "My name is Nick Stokes and this is . . ."

"I know who you are," she retorted coldly, pulling the door open a little more so they could see her face. "I guess my memory is better than both of yours. You're the Texan," she said, indicating Nick. "And you're . . . _him_," she spat, looking at Grissom.

"Do I know you, miss?" Grissom asked, struggling with his still-foggy brain. 

"I guess not," Susan retorted. "I repeat: what do you want?" Ben growled again, trying to get his head through the gap between the door and the wall.

Grissom looked down at the big dog and was hit with a flash of comprehension. "You're Susan. Susan . . . Akers?" When the woman didn't correct him, he pushed on. "We investigated your case. You know Sara."

"So?" She may have been sympathetic to the situation last night, but the fact that these men had flouted Sara's explicit request to be left alone did nothing to endear them to her. She wasn't going to invite Grissom or his friend into her home until she knew what he wanted and what his tactics were going to be.

"Look, Ms. Akers . . . Susan. May we come in, please? I have some questions for you about Sara."

"You're the one who got her pregnant," she said, glaring at Grissom. "I don't know anything about her that you shouldn't already know. Oh, and you're not coming in, _gentlemen_," she said in a mocking voice, "until I know exactly what it is you want. With Sara or with me."

"So she's in there?"

"Did I say that? I don't think so. I'll have you know that Sara's my friend. You, however, aren't, especially given what you did. I don't trust you any farther than I could throw you.

The younger man stepped forward again. "Listen, Miss Akers. I know that you maybe don't like us too much right now, though I'm not sure why, but we really need your help. Sara's lost and we're worried about her."

"Sara's fine. She told you that when she called you – the same time she asked you not to try to hunt her down. So don't worry." She began to shut the door. 

"That's easy for you to say!" Grissom's voice floated in through the door. "You don't have to stand out here wondering if she's dead, or hurt, or just plain gone. _You_ know where she is, Susan." His voice softened. "Please, help me. I just want to know that Sara is ok. She doesn't have to go anywhere with me, I just want to know that she's ok."

With a sigh, Susan acknowledged that the man did deserve to at least know that much. "Fine, she said," removing the chain. "Come in. But if you start threatening me or her, you're out of here, escorted by my dog's teeth."

Grissom nodded earnestly as he walked past the woman into her house. "No. No, I won't do anything like that."


	104. For what it's worth

"It's fine, Sue." All heads turned as first Sara's voice, then her body emerged from the guest room. "We both knew he was going to follow me here eventually."

"Sara . . ." Grissom began, and was cut off by Susan, who still looked like she'd be a lot happier if he were wearing handcuffs.

"You don't have to do this, Sara. I can make them leave, you know that."

Sara shook her head. "It's fine." Then, turning to Grissom and Nick, she gave them an unreadable look. "What do you guys want?" Both men noticed, though, that she didn't move any closer to them as she spoke.

"Umm," Nick mumbled, "I'll go wait in the car. You can just come out when you're done, Gris."

Susan momentarily pondered going with him and allowing the couple to have their privacy, but her worry for Sara won out and she decided that she wasn't going anywhere until she was sure that things would be ok. "I'm gonna go try to take a nap and give you two some privacy," she said. "But Sara, just yell if you need me and I'll come running."

Sara nodded. "Thanks." She watched Susan walk away and was surprised to find that Ben hadn't gone with her. "Go on," she told the dog, and flapped her hand at him. Ben's response was the raising of his hackles as he growled again at Grissom. "Ok, then," she told Ben, smiling a little, "stay. You can be my shield if I need one."

"I won't hurt you," Grissom ground out. "I wouldn't ever. Is that thing going to bite me if I come any closer?"

"I don't know if he will, but I just might," Sara said with narrowed eyes. "So you just stay over there, please, Grissom." When he did, she let out a quiet sigh of relief. "Ok, so . . . why are you here?"

"Is that all you have to say?" he said incredulously. "I've spent this entire night searching the whole damn city for you, and you want to know why I'm here?"

"Yeah, Gris, that's all I have to say as of now. If you don't like it, leave. I'm not stopping you."

Deep breath, he reminded himself. You're here to apologize, not to make her feel guilty or persecuted. He counted to ten, then spoke again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to sound like it did. I've just been completely out of my mind with worry. I didn't know where you were, and I kept having nightmare images of you being mugged, beat up, killed . . ."

"As you can see, I'm fine," Sara said, but allowed her face to soften a little. "You didn't need to worry; I told you I was going to go spend the night with a friend." She swallowed, then added, "Besides, I don't think you really have the right to be worried about me leaving when it was fear of you that made me leave."

Grissom's eyes widened. "_Fear_? Sara, no, no!"

"Yes," she replied flatly, "yes. You scared the hell out of me, Grissom, and don't try to pretend you don't know it. Why do you think I'm staying on the other side of the room right now? I don't even know that you're not going to come after me now that Sue let you in here."

"I didn't mean to. Sara, I wasn't trying to hurt you. I was trying to hold you back from leaving. If I had known I was hurting you, I wouldn't ever have touched your arm."

"Maybe you didn't mean to. _They_ never did. And they were always sorry afterwards." She closed her eyes against the memory of San Francisco that was assaulting her. "I can't tell myself that you're different anymore. That's why I'm here and not at home with you."

At least she was still calling it home, Grissom thought frantically.  She was scared of him? Who were "they"? "Sara," he said as calmly as he could manage, "I would never . . ."

"Don't," Sara cut him off swiftly. "Don't make promises like that that you won't keep. This isn't just for me anymore; it's for the baby too." Still fighting the ghosts of the past, she slid down to a sitting position on the floor, cradling her stomach. "You don't understand, do you. Not at all."

"Then make me understand." He took a step toward her, frightened by the way she was curling in on herself, but was forced to stop when Ben set his body between Grissom and Sara. "Sara, can't you . . ." He motioned helplessly toward the canine.

"No." She looked at him with such intensity that Grissom almost backed away. "I can't protect myself from you, but he can protect me. So he stays." She sighed, knowing that he still didn't understand anything, and rolled up her sleeve. "See these?" she asked, pointing to the purple marks on her upper arm. "They're from you. You left bruises."

"I _didn't mean_ . . ."

"Like I said, they never did."

"Listen, Sara. Who are 'they'? You told me that no one ever physically hurt you." He looked closely at her, noting her pallor and thinned lips. "I can't understand this if you won't tell me what's made you so afraid to begin with."

He was right. Sara hated the realization, but he really was right. Grissom needed to at least understand what had made her this sensitive to mistreatment. Taking a deep breath, she said, "Being beaten up is not something I'm proud of, Grissom. I don't go around telling people to get sympathy." She drew in another breath. "Do you remember Donny?"

"Donny? That man you, uh, dated? In California?" Grissom blinked. "He didn't . . . did he?"

Sara smiled a thin, bitter smile. "Don't want to believe it, huh? Most people don't. 'He's such a nice boy'," she mimicked. " ' He probably just didn't know how strong he was.' Do you know, Grissom, how fucking stupid it is to say something like that when the woman you're talking to has a sprained wrist and bruised ribs? Do you even _realize_ how cruel that is?"

"I can only imagine," he said carefully. Then, after a moment's thought, "I never saw the marks on you."

"I never showed you."

He wasn't getting anywhere, Grissom realized. He'd managed to push whatever button it was that made Sara's walls come flying back up. "You could have, you know. I would have believed you. I would have . . . done something. To help you, to hurt him, maybe both."

"Yeah, well, you didn't. I didn't. No one did. So there are my scars, Gris, staring you in the face. Do you get it? Do you have any concept of how much you scare me now?"

He sighed and dropped to the floor, mimicking her position. "I guess I do, as much as anyone who hasn't gone through it can. But I don't know how to fix the scars, and I don't know how to convince you that I wouldn't ever hurt you."

Sara shook her head. "You can't. That's why they're called 'scars,' and that's why the cliché, 'Once bitten, twice shy' exists. Or, in my case, forever shy. There will never be a time in my life when I'm not looking out for signs that a man will hurt me."

Grissom felt utterly defeated. There was nothing he could say that would make Sara sure that he wouldn't hurt her, and rightly so. He had already hurt her, inadvertently or not. "What can I do, Sara? Tell me and I'll do it. Please."

Sara said honestly, "I don't know. I really don't. Maybe if I knew how to deal with these things, I wouldn't have such a messed up life to begin with."

"It is _not_ your job to try to push away memories, sweetheart. That only makes things worse, and we both know it. Blame Donny; blame me if you need to. Just not yourself." Trying to gauge the look on Sara's face, he bit his lip. "So what does this mean?" he asked, trying to hide the desperation he felt. "Will you come home? Can I try to prove myself?"

" I wish I could say yes, Gil. I'm just . . . afraid. How can I go home with you, knowing that you've already lost control of your anger once? What if next time it's for real?"

"Sara," Grissom said slowly, "if I ever touch you in anger again . . . if you even think I'm going to . . . I want you to call the police. Lock yourself in the bedroom and dial 911. _I want you to promise me that_. I will willingly go to jail if I ever hurt you." He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he knew whether his statements were worth anything. "Let me prove myself. Please."

Sara was silent for a long time. She wasn't looking at Grissom, she wasn't looking at Ben; she wasn't really looking at anything. She was looking inside herself. Could Grissom ever become like Donny? she wondered, digging for the truth within her mind.

Finally, as Grissom was allowing the reality that he'd driven her away completely to sink in, she spoke. "Okay."


	105. My baby you

**A/N: **Hold onto your seats, we're skipping ahead in time in this chapter!

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They were awakened by 125 pounds of dog flying onto their bed. Grissom shot up in bed, eyes wide and wary until he realized that the weight was Newton and she had either figured out how to unlatch the baby gate that kept her in the kitchen, or she'd just hopped it. "Down!" he ordered the panting canine, who was licking Sara's face as if it were her job in life. 

Newton gave him a look that said, "Yeah right," and went back to licking Sara.

He heard Sara giggle. Well, he thought, at least the dog hadn't scared her like it had scared him. "Down," Grissom tried again, with no success. He gave the dog a dirty look, then gracefully accepted his defeat and tried to ignore her

. "Morning," he whispered to Sara, brushing a lock of hair away from her eyes so he could see them.

"Morning," she said, eyes sparkling, then twitched as she felt a claw scrape where it shouldn't be. "Ow!" She, too, gave Newton a dirty look. "Stay away from the stomach, dog!" She rubbed her large belly, at first to relieve the sting and then in wonder. She couldn't believe how much her girth had expanded, even since her fourth month, when she had already felt like a giant beach ball, and she was now constantly touching the mound in amazement.

"You ok?" Grissom asked with deep concern in his voice. When she assured him that she was, he sighed. "We should really get a bigger gate. It's way too dangerous to have the dog walking around on you."

"Relax, Gil. It's been six months; if I haven't managed to hurt myself beating up the stupid desk you stuck me behind at work, then a bouncy dog certainly can't hurt me." When Grissom harrumphed, she grinned and sat up. "Oh, stop grumbling, you big baby. You just think this thing is your exclusive domain." She patted her stomach and smiled wider as he frowned.

"Well," Grissom said, "I did have more to do with creating it than either the desk or the dog did."

"Besides," Sara continued, purposely ignoring him, "Newton's tall enough to jump any gate we buy, unless you can find one that goes all the way up to the ceiling."

Grissom chose not to respond to that truth. Instead, he reached out a hand and laid it on top of Sara's, which was still on her stomach. "Hello, baby."

"Me? Or her?"

"Both of you. You . . . and _him_," he said pointedly.

"Oh, give it up, old man. It's a girl, I'm telling you." She grinned. "Need I remind you that I'm doing all the work in this pregnancy, and you should be bowing and obeying my every wish?"

Grissom smirked. "I did, this morning."

"Yeah," Sara replied, "I noticed. Look." She pulled the sheet down another two inches, revealing her left hip, which bore distinct purple finger marks.

Grissom sucked in his breath. Oh, no . . . he hadn't meant to mark her! "Do they . . . hurt?" he ventured. There had been many discussions of the fight they'd had about getting married, and though Sara kept telling him that she trusted him again, he was skeptical and always on his guard. He closed his eyes, hoping for a reprieve in whatever form it could take. "I didn't mean to . . ."

"Those have been your favorite words the past few months," Sara said sternly, then ruined the act with a smile. "It's ok, Gris. They don't hurt, and you certainly weren't angry when you made them. Besides . . ." She patted him on the back, then ran a finger over his shoulder blade. "I got my revenge." Flicking a finger at one of the new, crescent-shaped scabs that were forming on his back, she had to laugh. "I'm pretty sure I did more damage to you than you did to me."

Grissom had withdrawn from her, though, and she knew it. She had dealt with the exaggerated fear she'd felt of him that day, knowing that half of it had been her anticipatory fear of being hurt; the other half she chalked up to the hormones that had turned her into a wreck that entire day, before and after their blow-up. Grissom, however, still lived in fear of . . . well, she wasn't sure what of. Of hurting her again, she supposed, though they both knew that he wouldn't, and she had tried to explain that to him many times.

"Grissom."

He didn't speak, but turned to look at her.

"Grissom, it's fine, for god's sake. I said 'harder;' you obliged. You were only obeying my every wish," she said with a wink. "Please don't turn this into another lecture on how you're only trying to do what I asked two months ago."

"Well I apologize," he said, still not smiling, " but I'm about to. You can't blame me for worrying when you very nearly ran out of my life the same two months ago because of marks just like these." He ran a finger lightly over the bruises, not pressing. "So how can I know whether you consider them different or not?"

"Gil, I've told you that I was stupid to get so scared. Please, can't you forget about it? I just want the old Grissom back; the one who wasn't scared to pin me against a wall and kiss me."

Grissom sighed. "We've had this discussion before, Sara. I can't just forget it. I'm trying to do what you say and move past it, but you're too valuable to me to lose over, I don't know, rough sex or something."

Sara gave up on convincing him. Instead, she got up and shepherded the dog out of the room, shutting the door behind the retreating tail. Turning back to the bed, she caught Grissom staring at her body. "I know, just call me the Walking Beach Ball. I never thought I cared about my weight, but I guess that was because I was always so thin."

A snort answered her. "Sara, you're six months pregnant and you've only gained fifteen pounds. You're supposed to have gained almost twenty-four. There is absolutely no way that you can honestly say you're fat."

"Well I certainly can't say I'm thin! I haven't been able to wear my own clothes for_ever_! I look like I'm carrying around a bowling ball. Plus," she added as the thought came to her, "there's someone doing aerobics in my belly, and I think I'm getting internal bruises from it."

Grissom couldn't help but laugh at her outrage. This earned him a fulminating glare. "You're beautiful, Sara. Don't argue with me about that, or I'll, uh . . . do something to make you stop arguing."

Sara's eyes narrowed. "Oh _really_?" she asked in a low voice.

"Yes. Really."

She grinned. "Well, in that case . . . I'm fat, I'm fat, I'm fat . . ." Sara started wobbling across the room in what might have been a dance had she been able to see her feet, repeating this in a singsong voice until she knew it must be driving Grissom nuts. No reaction on his part, hmm. She tried again. "I'm ugly, I'm ugly, I'm fat . . ."

His arms closed around her chest, locking down just under her breasts. "I'd wrap my arms around your waist," he whispered into her ear, "but it's just that you're so fat, I can't get them all the way around."

"Why you . . .!" Sara didn't hesitate, simply spun around to face him and smacked his arm lightly. "You're supposed to be doing something to make me stop saying that."

"I'm sorry," Grissom said questioningly and with an impudent grin, cupping a hand around his ear. "I couldn't quite hear what you were saying . . ."

"Bull," Sara said with a laugh. "You're back up to 83 percent of your aural capacity, bugman. No fair claiming you can't hear anymore."

Grissom groaned theatrically. "Skewered by the pregnant woman." Throwing his arms out in surrender, he smirked. "Punish me as you will!"


	106. Not gonna take it anymore

Sara slowly returned to a standing position, rubbing the small of her back. Distractedly, she thought that if Grissom were here he would tell her she ought to be glad she could stand up at all, considering the size of her stomach. 

Nick's worried voice cut in on her thoughts. "You want some help there, Sara?" He cupped a hand around her elbow, offering support to help her balance. "You know Grissom's gonna kill you if he finds you in here. Hey, I'm tempted to kill you. You belong behind that desk for the next two months, not hanging around the labs."

"Oh, come on," Sara moaned. "You too? This is the print lab, for god's sake; there's nothing harmful in here. I'm not even standing near the print powder! Besides, there's just no way I'm spending eight hours straight behind a desk. Or in a sitting position at all. No way," she repeated for emphasis.

"Hey," Nick said lightly, "I surrender. I'm just glad it's not my job to keep you under control. Poor Grissom!"

Luckily for him, Sara's hormones had chosen to behave today. "Watch it, buddy, or I'll tell him you dragged me in here."

Nick grinned. "Ok, ok. But could you at least do me one favor, though?"

"Depends."

"Can you just not shift your center of gravity by bending over or sitting down when you're around me? I'm getting slightly sick of having to push and pull to get you back to standing." 

Sara hated the feeling that she was about to topple over every time she shifted her weight. She sighed. "I am _so sick_ of being pregnant!"

A chuckle came from the doorway. "You don't have much choice at this point, dear," Grissom said with a smile. "And what are you doing in here, anyway? I told you to stay out of the labs that housed substances."

"Fingerprint powder generally isn't considered a threat, Gil. Well, most of the time, anyway. And look," she said with a sweep of her arm, "I'm not standing anywhere near it. I'm standing, if you'll notice, against the wall and looking over Nick's shoulder to see everything. _And_," she concluded with another glance around the lab, "there isn't even any loose powder anyway. I checked."

"But Sara, I told you . . ."

"Oh give it _up_! Both of you! Please! I don't want to be pregnant anymore if you're all going to be policing me, it's too frustrating."

Nick had to laugh at this comment. "Shoulda thought of that . . ." He paused to count. ". . . 33 weeks ago."

Sara groaned. "Oh, wonderful." Giving Grissom a baleful look, she said, "Now you've got _everyone_ counting, Gris? Like I don't have enough baby stress going on?"

"Come on, out," Grissom instructed patiently, trying to shoo her toward the door. "If you come with me, you can have a cookie."

"What am I, the dog? I get treats if I obey?"

"Not exactly," he said with a laugh, "but you and I both know you'd do anything for an oatmeal cookie with chocolate syrup on it right now."

"Gil Grissom, you are an evil man, using my weakness against me!" Despite her protests, though, Sara's mouth was watering at the thought of said cookie and she allowed herself to be ushered out of the room. Grissom led her down the hall to his office and prodded her inside, then shut the door.

"Coooookie," he cooed.

"This child is going to be born hating cookies, Gris." She narrowed her eyes. "Now, gimme."

Grissom shook his head. "In a minute. We need to talk first."

"About cookies?"

"No, about you staying put."

Another groan from Sara. "Oh, come on. I let you take me out of the field completely last month without arguing. I don't hang out in the morgue with David anymore because you had a shit fit. The dog's not allowed in the bedroom anymore because you were worried about her making me sick or walking on me. And now you don't want me to even be allowed to walk around?"

He furrowed his brows. "Well, not exactly. But you know, someone has to control you, since you won't control yourself." He shrugged. "You know better than to expose yourself to all the dangerous substances that are wafting around the labs."

"DVT."

"What?"

"DVT. Deep Vein Thrombosis. Potentially deadly blood clots in the legs that are much more likely to develop if a person sits in a cramped position – note the length of my legs and the depth of the foot-well at that desk - for long periods of time." She stuck out her tongue. "So there."

"I'll tie you into that chair and have Greg come in every few hours to move your legs around. Don't think I won't."

A deep laugh escaped her. "Ok, that just might be the strangest thing you've said to me in the past eight months. But Gil, in all honesty, I can't just sit here. If you don't want me near anything in theses labs, then _you_ go to Mobley and try to get me an advance month of maternity leave. That's the only way you're going to keep me away from all the horrors you see in here.

"Now give me the damn cookie."

Grissom sighed. "You and I both know you're not going to be allowed leave before your ninth month. Mobley'd have you working until the moment you went into labor if he could."

"My point exactly. And if it were my choice, I _would_ work nearly up to that point. I can't just sit at home and be bored. You said I was worse than the dog about being left alone, remember?"

"I know, I know." He hated when she was right like that. "Let's compromise, ok?"

"How?" Sara asked suspiciously. "The last time you suggested a compromise, it involved me doing what you wanted. Not exactly the type of compromise I'm looking for."

"Well . . . how about: I won't limit you to the desk and I'll trust you to use your own judgment about where to go and not go in the building."

"Uh-huh. Go on."

"In return, you take leave a few weeks earlier than you wanted, at your thirty-fifth week instead your thirty-eighth. Which is," he noted, "only a week before a pregnant woman's _supposed_ to take leave." 

Sara contemplated the offer. She really did hate being shut up alone at home, but then again, she also hated trying to drag her heavy load around for the eight hours a day Grissom allowed her to work. But what would she _do_ if she stayed at home?

"You could start setting up her room."

She blinked. "Huh?"

"You said it out loud," Grissom said with a grin. "Besides, you know I can read your mind when you're feeling rebellious. How about I bring home some case files for you to go over, just so your brain doesn't atrophy for the last month or so."

Sara snorted. "Well gee, if my brain atrophied, I'd be just as smart as you when you're in this baby-madness phase." Giving his offer another minute of thought, she nodded. "Ok, deal. And I'm gonna call you on it if you start trying to limit me in the labs again."

Grissom let out a relieved breath, but his thoughts were interrupted when Sara spoke again. "But wait . . . how are you going to convince Mobley to give me leave a week before the typical start time?"

He grinned. "You're not the only one who knows how to fight dirty with him. I've been keeping my ears open." With a smug look, he then disappeared behind his desk. A few seconds later, a box of oatmeal cookies Sara's mother had sent suddenly materialized in his hands. "_Now_ you can have the cookie."

"You know . . . I'm going to find where you keep those and then I'm gonna eat 'em all. All at once!"

Grissom carefully selected a cookie and handed it to her. "If you did, I'd be glad. Maybe that would help you put on the 15 more pounds you need. And chocolate syrup's in the fridge," he added with a nod toward it.

"12 pounds," she corrected absently. "Wonderful. My chocolate syrup's in the fridge with your maggots and decaying blood, and you're worrying about me inhaling dust. You, Grissom, are a total hypocrite." She snatched the cookie out of his hands, though, and retrieved the syrup eagerly. "Mmmm, cookie," she groaned in a voice that Grissom generally didn't expect to hear anywhere but in bed. 

Grissom sighed. He was being replaced by a mixture of flour, sugar, oats, and chocolate.


	107. Don't give up

 "Are you sure I look okay?" Grissom asked nervously, turning to look at Sara.

In response, she put a hand on his cheek and pushed his face away from her. "Try watching the road while you drive, Gil. You look fine, and trust me, they'll be less pleased if you get us into an accident than if they think your shirt is the wrong color."

"But . . ."

Sara put a comforting hand on his arm. "You'll be fine. They'll like you, trust me." She struggled for a moment to prop her feet up on the dashboard of the car. "God, I didn't think that _anyone's _ankles could get this swollen, even after the doctor and Catherine both told me."

"Don't change the subject!" he exclaimed in a strangled voice. "I'm about to meet your parents for the first time, and you're worrying about your swollen ankles! What if they don't like me? What if they think I'm too old? You said they're hippies. What if they don't like how structured my life is?"

Sara groaned. "Calm down! I have never seen you freak out this much in all the years I've known you. They're just my parents, Gris. I'm an adult; even if they hate you they can't stop me from marrying you or anything. But they won't hate you, anyway. You're just the type of person they want for me."

"I haven't married you and I got you pregnant. _That's_ the kind of person they want for you?" He moaned something unintelligible. "Tell me again that your dad's against all violence – including beating up his daughter's boyfriends?"

"My dad's against all violence, including beating up his daughter's boyfriends," Sara repeated dutifully. "He's never killed anyone yet, I promise you. And the reason we're not married, though I shouldn't have to remind you of this, is that _I_ didn't want to, not because you weren't willing. 

"As for the baby, well, Mom's just so happy that she's going to have a granddaughter that she'll probably forgive us anything. They've been hearing about you for something like ten years now, it's not like you're some stranger who came in and swept me off my feet." She paused. "Well, you did sweep me off my feet. But you know what I mean. They know I'm getting just what I wanted."

Grissom was silent, mentally reviewing all the ways that this meeting could go wrong. There were a lot of them. They could dislike him on sight. They could dislike him when they found out that he was Sara's boss, or when they realized that he was so much older than she was. They could disapprove of the small home he and Sara lived in, or of the framed bugs on the walls, or of the live ones living in cages in the kitchen. They could . . .

Another groan escaped Grissom's lips, and Sara couldn't help but smile. She thought it was rather cute how nervous he was about meeting her parents, who were probably some of the most harmless people he'd ever meet. "Hey, Gris? We're, uh, at the airport. You might want to park."

"What? Oh!" He quickly turned the car into the parking lot. When it was in park, he turned to her again. "You don't think they'll think it's ostentatious that I drive a BMW?"

"No," Sara said briskly, "they'll be glad that you can support me. Like I need you to," she added, scoffing. "Considering that they're hippies, they're pretty traditionalist. Older men are acceptable, especially well-to-do older men. Therefore they'll like you. I'll probably get a lecture on how to keep you happy or something."

"I'm not rich, Sara!"

"You think I don't know that? I do most of the check-writing and bookkeeping around here, I'll remind you." She grinned. "But we're not poor either, and we'll just let them think that you're rich if they want. Now come _on_, their flight is supposed to arrive in ten minutes. They _really_ won't like you if you're late picking them up," she teased.

Grissom groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes, but allowed Sara to push him out of the car.

They had only been standing by the baggage carousels for five minutes when they heard a squeal. "Sara!" A tall woman with brown hair streaked with gray came flying toward them, trailed by an equally tall hippie-type with salt-and-pepper hair, who was lugging two carry-on bags covered with travel stickers.

Sara wiggled excitedly and squealed too, causing Grissom to stick a finger into his right ear, which had caught the brunt of the noise, and squint his eyes shut. When he opened them a second later, he realized that he was looking at Sara's father, who also had his ears covered and was wearing a grimace.

"Women, huh?" the older man asked with a laugh, nearly shouting to be heard over the high-pitched conversation going on to their right. "Steve Sidle. You're Gil?"

Grissom swallowed hard. "Yes. Hi," he said weakly, holding out a hand to shake Sara's father's. "Gil Grissom. It's, uh, great to meet you." The air suddenly quieted and he realized that both Sara and her mother were watching the men's exchange. Unwilling to look away from Steve and seem rude, Grissom twitched a shoulder nervously toward Sara.

She slipped her arm around his waist and squeezed reassuringly. "Mom, this is Gil Grissom. Gris, my mom, Amy Sidle. You've already met Dad, I see." She smiled, looking back and forth at the two men, glad to see that Grissom hadn't fainted from fear yet. "Daddy, have you been torturing him?"

Steve Sidle grinned and hugged his daughter. "No, sweetie, not at all. At least, not yet!" He laughed again, then pulled back and looked at her. "You look good. Very, very pregnant, but good. Happy." Leaning over Sara's belly, her father kissed her cheek.

"I am happy," Sara assured him, and took Grissom's hand. "Let's grab your bags and get out of here, ok? Those slot machines drive me nuts!"

"You're not grabbing anything!" Grissom said sternly, at the same time that her father said, "You're carrying enough luggage of your own, Sara!" Again, the men exchanged a smiling glance, leaving Grissom feeling slightly less nervous. They both headed toward the baggage claim.

"He's cute," Amy whispered in her daughter's ear when the men were out of earshot. "So, tell me all about him. How old is he? Does he take good care of you? Is he . . ."

Sara cut her off with a laugh. "In a minute, Mom. I'll tell you everything when we get home, I promise." She sighed. "Go easy on him, ok? He's so nervous that I'm surprised he hasn't passed out yet."

"No promises until I know how he's treating you, honey. He hasn't married you, and that's an automatic strike against him."

"He asked. I said no," Sara said out of the side of her mouth, giving her mother a dirty look. "Don't you dare hold that against him."

"Hey girls!" Steve said jovially. "Gil and I've got the bags, what say we head out. I can't wait to see your house!"

Grissom twitched again.

Sara grinned.


	108. For whom the bell tolls

 "So, Gil," Amy Sidle began when she was settled on the leather couch in Grissom's living room. "You work with Sara?"

Grissom noticed that as she spoke, she was examining the room in which they sat, eyes darting from one thing to another. Did she like what she saw? He couldn't tell; all he knew was that Sara looked very amused. His hand tightened on Newton's nylon collar.

"Uh, yes," he managed. "Sara and I both work on the night shift. Well, when she's not on leave like she is now. I'm her supervisor, actually." Wondering if the stuttering in his brain was coming through in his speech, he shifted his weight on the breakfast-bar stool he was resting uneasily on. "We've worked together for almost four years now."

Sara's father, who was much more astute than the tie-dye and ponytail made him look, offered Grissom a reassuring smile and cut in on the conversation. "So you drive a Beamer, huh? I guess crime and death pay better than Amy and I thought!"

Sara rolled her eyes, wishing her parents weren't quite so . . . curious. "Yeah, dad, he has a BMW. And no, the job doesn't pay particularly well. I've still got my Bug. It's just that Grissom's a better saver than I am. He's also a better driver."

Grissom gave Sara a silent look that promised unending gratitude if she could just continue to keep the intimidating questions away from him, and she reached over and squeezed his hand. "We've known each other for a long time though. Since I was in San Fran, actually. So we know each other really well."

"Oh, so you're old friends then!" Amy said with a sweet smile on her face. Just as Grissom and Sara were breathing sighs of relief at her tone, she switched gears and went in for the kill. "So why haven't you married my little girl, Gil, if you know her so well?"

"Uh . . ."

"Mom! Geez, could you be a little more obnoxious?" Sara stood up angrily, glad that she'd chosen a high stool and not the low couch to sit on. "I already told you that he asked me and I said no. I think one day he just might kidnap me in my sleep and drag me to one of the chapels downtown. So don't act like he's talking advantage of me.

"Besides, you guys are here to visit me and meet Grissom, not to tear him apart. If you're going to be snarky for the next three weeks, you can just go home now and we'll mail a video of the baby when she's born."

"You know Sara's right, Amy," Steve said quietly. "If she's happy, I don't see any reason why we should try to make her unhappy by picking on Gil." He put an arm around his wife's shoulders and gave Sara a pleading look. "Your mom's sorry, sweetie. We're just having some trouble dealing with all this. Last time we saw you, you didn't have a boyfriend and wanted to move back home, and now you're pregnant and living with the man who made you want to move home in the first place."

Sara's mouth fell open and she sank back onto the stool, thunderstruck. Her father hadn't really just said that, had he? Oh god. "Uh, Dad . . . let's just change the subject, ok? What are you guys planning on doing while you're here, anyway? I'm your tour guide."

Mrs. Sidle, still struggling with her opinion of Grissom, looked up in surprise. "Well, honey, we thought you could just show us the sights. You know, the Strip and all."

Sara and Grissom looked at each other and laughed. "What part of the Strip, Mom?"

Amy blinked. "Well . . . all of it. Is there something wrong with that?"

"Technically, Mrs. Sidle, no," Grissom offered. "It's just that the Strip is much larger than most people think. It's three miles long, and if you want to include the areas most people consider part of the Strip, though they technically aren't, you're talking between six and nine miles, not taking into consideration that you have to walk the same distance to get back to where you started."

Sara grinned. "I know you guys still walk at home, but I don't think you can handle the whole thing at once. It would probably be easier if you pick out what you especially want to see and I'll drive us around. Plus I'm sure you've noticed that it's currently 83 degrees outside. The weather here is kinda nutty. If we tried to walk too far, you guys would be carrying a very angry pregnant woman home."

She sighed and patted her mother on the shoulder. "Welcome to real life, Mom. Let's try an easier question: where do you want to go for dinner?"

As he realized that the heat really was off him, Grissom's shoulders relaxed and he released his hold on Newton, choosing instead to simply rest one hand on the dog's silky back. 

Amy Sidle brushed back her hair and smiled. "Oh, Sara, your father and I have no idea what's even around here! Why don't you and Gil pick a restaurant, and surprise us. We need to go back to our hotel and get this grimy traveling feeling off of us."

Steve quickly agreed with his wife, seizing the opportunity to escape now that she was no longer on the offensive. "Yeah, your mom's right, honey. We'll give you two a break. Don't worry about driving us, we'll take a cab," he added quickly.

Sara blinked. "But . . ."

"We'll take a cab," her father repeated with a broad wink.

She had no idea what that wink was supposed to mean, but accepted it. "Ok Dad. We'll give you a call later to talk about when we'll pick you up." With much effort, she stood and gave each of her parents a hug and a kiss, then ushered them to the door. "Thanks for coming."


	109. Not gonna take it anymore

As the door closed behind Sara's parents, Grissom leaned against it and gave Sara a wary look. "What was _that_ about?"

A shrug. "No idea. My parents are weird. Just be glad I distracted them when they were interrogating you." With a sigh, she added, "And I'll just be glad they're gone for the moment. I'm too tired to try to protect you."

Grissom was instantly contrite. "I'm sorry, Sara. You don't need to protect me from them, ok? I can deal well with your father. He's a nice guy. Your mother . . ." His voice trailed off as he realized that he didn't have any words to describe her mother.

". . . is the scariest thing you've ever seen?" Sara finished for him, smiling.

"Well, uh . . . quite possibly."

She laughed and reached over to tousle his hair. "Don't worry, I swear she's not really like that. This is the same act she's put on for every boyfriend of mine she's ever met. Well, except for the marriage part – that one's new. She's really a nice person. Honestly," she added, noting his skeptical face.

"If you say so." Still too nervous to try to deal with the thought of Amy Sidle, he quickly asked, "Why don't we try to get some sleep?"

"I _can't_ sleep," Sara groaned, giving him a dark look. "That's why I'm so damn tired. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find in a position even approaching comfortable to sleep in when you've got two feet of stomach protruding in front of you? Can't sleep on my stomach, so I start on my side. Then every time I roll over, I wake up because the baby sends me off balance. Then _you_ wake up, and you get cranky about how I keep waking you up, so then I'm awake worrying about keeping you up, because you need to go to work . . ." She let out a deep sigh, closing her eyes and rubbing them with her fists.

Grissom put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "I promise not to get cranky, how about that? You can kick me and prod me all you want. Consider me your human pillow and use my body however you need." He caught the laughing look on Sara's face and turned slightly red. "Not like _that_! You know what I meant."

"I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Pregnant. Anymore," Sara suddenly announced, punctuating each word with a stomp of her foot, which caused Grissom to back up slightly and almost trip over the dog, who was doing the same thing. "I want to be able to go to sleep like a normal person, I want to be able to sit down and then stand back up under my own power, I want to have emotions that don't swing out of control. I want to be able to do something more useful than putter around the house and try to decorate the baby's room, most of which I have to leave to you anyway because the paint's bad for me, the boxes are too heavy, and my center of gravity's so messed up that I can't even lean over the crib without falling in . . ."

"Three more weeks, Sara. Maybe less. Just keep telling yourself that it'll all be over soon."

"Three weeks is NOT 'soon'! And after those three weeks, I'll be spending _more_ time trying to take care of the baby and get back in shape so I don't fall into the crib even without all the extra weight. If life were fair, _you_ would be the one staying home after she's born, not me. You can putter; I'm sick of it!"

Grissom smiled. "It's open to discussion. Besides, it's only for six weeks, for your health as well as hers, then you're back to light work and the baby's experiencing the horror that is 'Uncle Greg.'" The thought of their child growing up with unusual people like those on his team made Grissom shudder, but he knew that they were lucky to have the opportunity.

"Hmm," Sara sighed. "You better be telling the truth when you say you convinced Mobley about the office, or else you'll have a very cranky wife on your . . ." She stopped, unable to believe what had just come out of her mouth. "A, uh, very cranky Sara on your hands."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "You said 'wife.'"

"Nuh-uh. Did not!!"

"Yes you did," he said with a small smile. "Lying doesn't become you, Sara. Perhaps it's your subconscious coming through to tell you what you ought to do with my poor self."

"My subconscious is too busy doing other things to think about marriage. It was just a slip of the tongue."

A retort was on his lips when he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. Sara hadn't been sleeping well, but until today he hadn't realized just how little sleep she had actually been getting. "Come on, let's go to bed. You look like you're about to drop."

"Gee, thanks for the compliment," she huffed. Shooting him a suspicious look, she asked, "You're stepping down from an opportunity to bother me? And that fast?" She put a hand to his forehead. "Do you have a fever?"

Grissom shrugged and pulled her hand away from his face to hold it in his. Rubbing a finger over her bare knuckles, he said quietly, "I'm more concerned about your well-being than about your ring finger right now, but I reserve the right to re-open the topic when you're not so tired."

"Yeah," Sara said with a snort. "Like twenty years from now when the kid's in college?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of tonight when I get you alone." College, he thought suddenly . . . wow. In all his reflections about their child, he'd never thought beyond the baby's infancy. They were going to be raising a real person. Wow, again.

"Gris?" Sara waved a hand in front of his face. "You're drifting again. Come on, I'll try to sleep just to make you happy."


	110. You walked in

Sara only lasted through three nights of sightseeing with her parents, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that she was better off than Grissom, who'd barely survived dinner the first night with Amy and Steve Sidle. 

The fourth night, as she and her parents walked into the Bellagio's casino, she finally gave up. "Enough, Mom! If you drag me through one more casino, oohing and aahing over the different types of slot machines, I promise I will have this baby on the floor, right here, just to embarrass you!"

Her mother gaped at her. Her father nearly collapsed from laughing so hard. "I don't think you get a choice in that sort of thing," Mrs. Sidle said, finally cracking a smile. "Although I almost did have you in the grocery store. I wouldn't recommend it."

Steve threw an arm around his daughter's shoulders and squeezed. "Oh yeah, we're never going to forget that day. Your mom could have cared less that she was in labor, she was just concerned about the entire town seeing her water breaking and the supposed embarrassment involved." Sara and her mother both gave him sour glances at this revelation. He'd reserve that particular story for another time, he decided. "Well, I'm going to venture a guess and say you're tired of casinos. What _would_ you like to do, then?"

She leaned against her father's shoulder, glad for the support. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Right now, I just want a nap. And a wheelchair. I think my ankles have reached critical mass and are about to declare themselves a separate country."

"Sara, honey, we've run you ragged!  Why didn't you tell us?" her mother asked in a voice somewhere between reproachful and apologetic. "We'll take you home and you can sleep. Your father and I have hardly been able to see your house, anyway."

After turning that option over in her mind, Sara shook her head. "No . . . I don't really want to go home either. How would you guys feel about getting a tour of CSI? We can go to the lab and I'll take you around, and you can meet everyone you always hear me whine about."

Her parents looked at each other and shrugged, then nodded their assent. Fifteen minutes later, Steve was behind the wheel of Sara's car, complaining about the seat's adjustment. "I never understood why you got these little cars anyway; it's not like you're short. How do you stand having to fold yourself into it every day?"

Sara offered her father a tired but teasing smile. "It's not my fault you're a giant. You can't be 6'6" and expect to find any car that fits you perfectly, let alone a tiny little Beetle like this. It's fine for me, I'm used to it. Besides, half the time I'm driving Grissom's car and he's driving mine, so we're both used to adjusting." She paused, checking their surroundings. "You sure you're ok with driving, Dad? You don't know your way around here."

"I'm fine, sweetie. I'm a man, remember? We're born with superior navigation abilities." He grinned when two female voices loudly began to poke holes in that argument.

"And that's why we almost didn't make it here because you got us lost on the way to the airport?" Amy asked skeptically.

"And why you still haven't figured out that the Luxor is south and the Stratosphere is north?" Sara added.

"Ok! I surrender," Steve acceded. "You girls win. Directions are your responsibility, Sara." 

"No problem," Sara replied. "Even pregnant women can navigate. Well, at least _this_ pregnant woman can." She settled back against her seat, alternately giving her father directions and dozing for the twenty-five minutes it took to get from the Strip to the CSI lab.

She awoke to the sound of her parents whispering. "You wake her up," said her father's voice. "No, Steve," her mom hissed. "She looks so peaceful. Let's just drive her home."

Opening her eyes, Sara smirked at them. "Well, you're off the hook. I'm up. Are we there?" She looked out the window, confirming that they were parked in the right lot. "Ok, cool. Let's go in."

Eyes widened when Sara entered the building on the arm of an extremely tall older man, followed by a slightly smaller woman. She made introductions as they were needed, first to the receptionists, then to techs they passed in the hallway.

As they entered the break room, Sara's pulse sped up. She hadn't seen Nick, Warrick, or anyone else from the lab in the two weeks since she'd gone on leave, and she was excited to get the chance now. She just hoped Grissom wouldn't boot them out before she could see everyone. Just as this thought crossed her mind, a movement in the doorway caught her attention.

"Nick!"

Nick grinned and swaggered toward her. "Hey, you. You got permission from the General to be here?" Without waiting for an answer, he gave her an awkward hug, unsure how to deal with the large belly between them. "God, I can't believe how big you got!"

Sara snorted. "Don't go around saying that to all the girls, Nick. You just might get punched." She smirked for a moment, then turned to her parents. "Mom, Dad, this is Nick Stokes. He's another CSI."

Nick shook hands with both her parents, automatically turning on the charm. "Wow, I can see where Sara gets both her height and her looks," he opined as he grasped Amy's hand. Then, shaking Steve's: "And where she got the rest of her height!"

As they were concluding the introductions, Catherine and Warrick wandered into the room from a blind corner. Sara noticed immediately that Warrick's hand was pressed against the small of Catherine's back and they were whispering. 

"Hey, don't let us interrupt you guys," she chirped. 

Catherine and Warrick both looked up quickly, assessing the situation. "You must be Sara's parents," Catherine said with hardly any hesitation, smiling at the two visitors. "I'm Catherine Willows, I work with . . . well, this whole group here. This is Warrick Brown," she said, motioning toward her companion. "We let him tag along every now and then."

Warrick growled something that didn't sound at all unkind, then held out his hand to Sara's father. "Warrick Brown, like Cath said. You're Mr. and Mrs. Sidle?"

More introductions were made and the group fell into small talk. Sara was considering going to find Greg when there was another movement in the doorway. Grissom, head down and staring hard at a paper in his hand, walked in, barely avoiding the doorjamb. When he heard the conversations, he said without raising his head, "Hey, guys, is this coffee klatch or is this a scientific environment?"

"I'm gonna go with 'coffee klatch'," Sara said with a smug laugh.

Grissom's head shot up. "Sara! What are you . . ." His gaze fell on her parents and he interrupted himself. "Mrs. Sidle . . . Mr. Sidle," he managed, freezing in place. He backed up a step, catching Sara's laughing look.

"I think," Sara's mother said with a small smile, "that if you back up any farther, Gil, you'll be wearing that doorknob in an uncomfortable place. Come in and start breathing again, please."

Grissom looked from Sara to Amy, blinking at what he saw: Amy Sidle was actually smiling at him. Smiling brightly, too!


	111. Oh, what a night

The bed rocked slightly as Sara rolled over. "Gil?"

"Ummm," was Grissom's response. He turned over so that his back was to her, and pulled a pillow over his head. "Nmmning."

"Uh . . . what?"

Grissom cocked an eye open and gave her a tired look. "No' mo'ning," he mumbled, then replaced the pillow over his head.

Sara sighed. "Of course it's not morning, Grissom; you don't get up in the morning to begin with." No response, and she shook his shoulder again. "_Grissom_. Wake up."

Both eyes opened this time. "What, Sara? Is something wrong?" The fog was beginning to clear from his brain, and he was realizing that it wasn't normal for Sara to wake him up in the middle of the day.

"My back hurts."

Her back hurt. It wasn't an emergency. He wanted to go back to sleep. Grissom decided to be conciliatory; it usually worked well on her. "Ok, honey. Turn over, I'll rub it for you." One hand reached for her spine, the other pillowed his head as he closed his eyes again.

One of Sara's fingernails punctured the hand he was holding out to her and he yelped and flipped back over to face her. "No, Gil," she repeated. "_My back hurts_." 

He began to run through his mental list of reasons why Sara's back would hurt. Walking too much? No, she'd hardly left the house for the past three days. Slept in the wrong position? More likely; she'd told him many times how hard it was to find a functional sleeping position. "Did you . . ." he began.

Her low moan cut him off. "Owwww."

That did it. He was fully awake. "Sara?"

"Ow."

"Sara, what's wrong?" Things began to click, a piece at a time. She was waking him up at an unlikely time, her back hurt badly enough to make her voice it, and she sounded shaken. Her back hurt. Contractions would make her back hurt. Oh god! "You think you're having contractions?"

Sara paused, querying her body. A nod. "Yeah."

His muscles felt frozen for a moment, then his memory kicked in. There was an order to labor; what was it? "You're having contractions. How long?"

"I've been feeling twinges for about an hour, but it just started to really hurt a few minutes before I woke you up."

"Time?"

"I'm not positive, but I think about eight minutes." She inhaled slowly, then let out the breath. "Do you think it's for real?"

He ran his hand over her stomach and closed his eyes. "I don't know. Does it feel real?"

A soft hand slipped around his and squeezed slightly harder than usual. "I don't know why, but I think it is. What should we do?"

Grissom pulled away from her and sat up, feeling for his glasses. When they were perched on his nose, he switched on the light and opened a drawer in the nightstand. A set of papers were pulled from the drawer and held under the light. "You said eight minutes?"

"Yeah." Another breath, this one slightly faster. "Make that seven."

"Another one?" When she nodded, he consulted the papers again. "We're supposed to go to the hospital when they're about five minutes apart." Pushing his glasses back up, he read a little farther. "But nothing else? Water hasn't broken?"

"No."

"Then we sit. And count."

Sara nodded and inched up in bed, trying to balance well enough to sit upright. Noticing the struggle, Grissom grasped her arm and, between the two of them, they managed to haul her up. Grissom put an arm around her shoulders, and Sara leaned back and closed her eyes.

He looked at her for a few minutes, timing his breaths to hers. In, out. He watched her stomach rise and fall in rhythm, and fancied that he could see the baby moving against her skin. Testing his theory, he placed his free hand back on her belly. It wasn't a kick; it felt more like a wiggle. Maybe the baby was turning over. Were babies supposed to turn over? He didn't remember.

Her voice startled him out of his ponderings. "Are you counting?"

Another contraction. He glanced down at his watch; it had been six and a half minutes. "Six point five. Are they supposed to progress this fast?" He winced as she crushed the hand he had slung over her shoulder. "Ouch. I'll take that to mean it hurts?"

Sara's eyes opened and she fixed a steely glare on him. "Like a bitch. Try for a little sympathy, huh? I have no idea if they're supposed to move this fast; you're the fact-gatherer. I'm just the guinea pig." Her eyes fluttered shut again and she resumed concentrating on her breathing.

Ten minutes later, her contractions hit the magic number. "Time?"

"Five," he said briskly. "Let's get ready to go." He removed his arm from her shoulders and stood up, moving toward the closet where her small suitcase was sitting.

Sara put out a hand and just managed to grip the back of his shorts. "Wait. We need to call people. We need to call my parents. And Nick. Susan." She sighed. "Everyone we've ever met." 

Grissom carefully pulled her off the bed and into a standing position, then hugged her. "Breathe, sweetie. Panic is a bad thing right now."

"I'm not panicking. I'm just saying that we need to call people."

"I'll make you a deal: right now, calm down and help me get everything together, then once we're in the car, you can call everyone on the way to the hospital."

"Ok. Ok, yeah." She did indeed feel the tide of panic rising. Not a lot, she told herself; it was just the adrenaline kicking in. She wasn't going to go all flaky like the women she'd seen on TV. With that determined, Sara began a slow waddle toward the front door, watching Grissom as he stepped into a pair of pants and scrambled ahead of her.

He shuttled her suitcase and the bag of things he thought she'd need but hadn't told her about to his car, then returned to the house, struggling with the emotional riot going on in his mind. First one thought, then another, was flying around, and he could have sworn that there were voices arguing in there. She'd be fine. No, she was built very small; she might have trouble. But even if there were trouble, there would be doctors all around them. Yeah, there were doctors around most people who died, and they still died. Ohhh . . .

"Grissom."

Her voice sounded slightly off, and he quickly pushed his thoughts aside and focused on her. She looked ok. "What?"

She gestured to her legs, and it took Grissom a minute to figure out what she was showing him. Then it came into focus: running down her leg was a small trail of pink liquid. Sara's water had broken.


	112. Telephone hour

"Don't panic . . . don't panic . . . don't panic . . . ok, NOW you can panic!" Grissom wondered if the line repeating in his head was really from a movie, or whether he just thought it was. Either way, it was appropriate.  He wasn't going to panic. No way, not him, he had resolved . . . until her water broke. Then, panic!

He blanked. Forgot what he was doing, which direction he had been heading before Sara pointed to her legs. Might have forgotten his name if he'd been allowed to stand, frozen, for another few seconds. 

"Uh . . . Gil?"

His head snapped toward her as he returned to some form of consciousness. "Yeah! Gil!" he agreed, completely nonsensically.

Sara blinked. "Er, yes. Gil. Do you think we should maybe be . . . getting in the car or something? It's generally recommended when you plan to drive somewhere." 

"Right. Yeah. Let's get you in the car." He didn't move.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Sara muttered, and reached out to give him a whack upside his head. "Car, Gris. Now. You can panic to your heart's content when we get to the hospital, but there's absolutely no way I'm driving there, so get your act together."

It was enough to get him moving again, at least. Grissom drove with half a mind while the other half concentrated on the pain the woman next to him was experiencing. He wished fervently that they'd used three different forms of birth control nine months back; there was no way he was going to live through this birth, let alone savor it like the books said he was supposed to.

In between pains, Sara called people. "Hi mom. Guess where I am." A pause while her mother guessed. "Nope. In the car. On the way to the hospital . . . no, I'm not kidding. My water broke. You guys need to get to the hospital. Call a taxi, or I can ask someone else to pick you up." 

A very loud voice came through the phone, strident enough for even Grissom to hear. "You're WHAT? You're going to have the baby? Oh my god! Steve! Steve! The baby!" A low male voice could be heard mumbling something.

"Mom. I need to get off the phone so I can call other people. Can you find your way to the hospital? . . . Ok, good. I'll see you in a little while, then." She flipped the phone shut and slid a sideways look at Grissom. "I think my mom's calmer than you."

"I'm calm!"

"Riiiight," she drawled slightly skeptically. "I'm calling Catherine." Opening her phone again, she dialed. It took five rings, but Catherine eventually answered drowsily. "Hi, Cath. . . . It's Sara. . . . Yeah, I'm fine. Uh, well, technically fine." She stopped talking to press a hand to her belly and groan, then gritted her teeth and put the phone back to her mouth. "Sorry. I'm, uh . . . in labor. Contraction, so bear with me."

Another loud voice came through the phone to Grissom's ears. "You're in _labor_? Where are you? Are you at the . . ."

"Yeah, definitely in labor. I'm in the car right now, on the way to the hospital. Grissom's a wreck . . . What? Oh. Five, I think. When we last counted . . . Yeah, exactly.  Listen, I'm gonna hang up and do some physical damage to him so he knows how it feels. Can you call the rest of the team? And ask Nick to call Susan – he'll know who I mean . . . Thank you, you're wonderful. Bye."

When the phone flipped shut again, Grissom looked at her nervously. "You're not going to damage me while I'm driving, right? You can wait until we get somewhere where my body can stop functioning correctly without killing both of us?"

Sara sighed. "I'll try. We're almost there, anyway." They were indeed almost at the hospital, and Sara checked her watch. "Good, I'm influencing you – we made it here in eighteen minutes when it's usually twenty-five. And I'm still at five, as far as I can tell."

Grissom wondered what she wanted him to do with this status report. "What do I do now? Do you need a wheelchair? Should I park?"

"Drop me off at the emergency entrance, then go park. I promise not to go anywhere until you get back." 

She had the door open almost before he stopped the car. "Sara!" he said as sharply as he could manage. "Stop. Let me help you before you fall on your face like you always do when you're drunk." He took her arm and provided the balance she needed to step down. "Ok. Go in. I'll see you in a minute."

Sara stared after the retreating taillights for a minute, reflecting. Her first thought was that Grissom's mood was swinging as quickly tonight as hers had been through the whole pregnancy. Her second thought was, "Oh my god. I'm going to have a baby." Third: "Oh my god, I'm going to have a baby and Grissom is its father."

A voice from behind her scared the hell out of her. "Ma'am?" A young woman who could have been either a doctor or a nurse was looking at her with concern. "Are you in labor?"

Sara nodded. "Uh. Uh, yeah. Labor." She looked around, wondering what was keeping Grissom. "I'm just waiting for my . . ."

"He'll find you," the woman said with a small smile. "Panting, very pregnant women with damp bottom halves are hard to miss." She took Sara's arm and led her inside, stopping at a cushioned bench. "You stay here for a minute and I'll help you get signed in. Have you pre-registered?"

The thought wouldn't come to her for a second and Sara felt her face turn red. No flakiness, Sidle, don't you remember? "Yes!" she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "Yes, we pre-registered. I'm Sara Sidle."

"Ok, let me go look you up. Is your last name S-i-d-u-l?"

"No, S-i-d-l-e. Um, my parents are going to be coming in soon. Is that ok?"

"Of course! And the father, too, I assume? Unless you walked here, and I doubt that," she added with a grin. "Oh, by the way, my name is Emma; I always forget to tell people that before I start manhandling them! Now, just stay here . . ." Emma was still chattering as she left Sara and walked toward the check-in desk.

Just as another contraction hit Sara, Grissom came through the door looking lost. His gaze flitted around the room, examining each person and rejecting them. When he finally spotted her, his face broke into a boyish grin and he nearly ran to her. "You ok?"

"Yeah," she said on a pant. "Just fine. Can I damage you now?"

"Sure," he said, sounding for all the world like he'd willingly stand still and let her do that. "Are you ok?" he asked again as the concern broke through, despite his attempt at a calm façade.

"Fine. Mostly. Ow."

Emma returned just then, holding out some forms. "Just check these over for me and . . . oops. Not at the moment, I guess," she said, noticing the tightness of Sara's face. Turning to Grissom, she asked, "Are you the father? Can you take a crack at these and just make sure everything important is correct?"

Grissom nodded and skimmed the contents. Their names, Sara's few medical issues, the baby's due date, the name of their doctor, and the results of Sara's last exam were all correct. "This is all right," he said, and was about to continue when another voice rose over the din of the waiting room.

"Sara!" Her parents were making their way across the room with singular determination. Steve reached her first; he might have even bumped Amy out of the way, if Grissom's eyes could be trusted. Squatting down, he took his daughter's hand in his larger one. "How are you feeling? Is everything ok?"

Now that the contraction had eased and she could again observe what was happening around her, Sara had to smile. "Yes, Daddy, I'm fine. You should check on Gil, though . . . he's a little wound up."

A sniffle came from behind Steve. "My little girl," said her mother's voice. "My little girl is having her own little girl . . ." Amy stepped out from behind her husband, rubbed her watery eyes, raised a tissue to her nose, and blew. "My little girl."


	113. I feel you shiver with antici

Nick Stokes and Susan Akers arrived together fifteen minutes after Grissom and Sara had disappeared into the bowels of the hospital; Warrick Brown and Catherine Willows were on their heels, arriving only seconds later. Nick was the first to spot Sara's parents, and the group hurried over to them.

"Hey," Nick said, slightly out of breath and too on edge to bother with pleasantries. "How is she? What's going on?" He looked around the room expectantly, forgetting for a minute that it was unlikely for the hospital to let laboring women languish in the waiting room.

Sara's mother was still dabbing at her eyes and sniffling, so her father answered, taking in the expectant faces making up the crowd in front of him. "Hello, Nick. Sara's fine; she and Grissom are back there somewhere" – he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the hallway – "getting blood drawn and whatever it is they need to do to her before they let me have my granddaughter."

Catherine started to speak, then realized that the three CSIs and one friend of Sara's were still standing in a tight semicircle around the pair sitting on the bench. "Let's sit down, guys." Planting herself next to Steve Sidle, she checked to make sure everyone was doing as she'd ordered, then spoke again. "How far along is she? Is she dealing with the pain?"

"We don't really know," Amy replied. "We only got to see her for a minute or two, then they whisked her back there." After thinking for a moment, she corrected herself. "Well, I spoke to her on the phone when they were on their way here and she sounded ok. Not especially pleased, but ok." She sniffed again.

Catherine nodded. "Yeah, I talked to her too and I came to the same conclusion. Except when she was talking to me, she was threatening Grissom between contractions," she said, looking to Warrick for confirmation of her statement. He, in turn, gave her a look meant to remind her that he wasn't supposed to have a way to know any of this.

While Catherine and Warrick were carrying on a conversation composed entirely of facial expressions, Susan took the opportunity to introduce herself to the people she didn't know. "Hi, I'm Susan Akers. I'm a . . . friend of Sara's." She shrugged embarrassedly into the second of silence that followed. "I just figured I'd get that over with now before things start getting hectic."

Those who didn't know her chorused a "hello," while Nick simply smiled.  More at ease now, Susan allowed herself to listen to the conversation floating around her. The older couple had to be either Sara's parents, or Grissom's. She couldn't be sure, but judging by their looks, she thought they were Sara's. The others were faces that were only vaguely familiar, with the exception of Nick. He was less of a mystery to her, and she was glad that at least one person in this crowd was.

Another body came hurtling toward them from the direction of the front doors, nearly bowling over Nick as he stood up to get a better vantage of the whirlwind. "Guys!" exclaimed a voice slightly higher than either Nick's or Warrick's. "Guys! I just found out – why didn't you call me?" Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer began a twitchy dance around them, eyes wide and curious as he took in the room and looked for Sara or Grissom.

It was Greg, of course; Catherine wondered how she could have forgotten to call him. Grabbing his wrist as he twitched past her, she gave it a tug. "Breathe, Greg. As you can see, we're all here and not panicking . . . much. As far as we know, Sara's fine. We're waiting to hear from someone who has more information than we do."

"You didn't call me!" he accused again. Greg's hair was, as usual, standing on end. Upon hearing about Sara this afternoon, he had pulled on whatever had come out of the closet first, yielding an unlikely ensemble. A lime-green and white polyester button-up shirt was thrown over a t-shirt that must have been a refugee from a Black Flag concert; his legs were covered by a pair of brown pants, the fabric of which Catherine couldn't identify and probably didn't want to know. 

"Hey, sorry, kid. I had other things on my mind, like a slightly insane friend driving an equally insane friend to the hospital so they could produce an insane child."

Greg harrumphed, but smiled. "Ok, I'll let ya off the hook this time. What say you make it up to me tomorrow?"

Warrick snorted. "Go find your own," he said with a smirk, pulling Catherine a few inches closer to his side. Catherine responded by giving him one of her looks, precipitating another silent conversation between them.

Greg blinked, taking in the scene, then decided he didn't really want to be hypnotized by their staring contest. "So," he said brightly, looking around at the group again, "everything's ok? When is she going to have the baby?"

Just as Nick was about to say something snarky in response, his attention was caught by a movement in the corner of his eye. Looking toward the hallway, he saw Grissom approaching them with dragging feet. "Guys. Look." He gestured toward the approaching man and the group exchanged worried looks. 

Sara's father jumped up. "What's wrong? Is she ok? Is she . . ."

"She's ok," Grissom cut him off, hoping to avert the possibility of Steve dropping dead on the spot. "She's in pain, but she's ok. I just, uh . . . needed a break." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. 

"Why Gil," Catherine said with a small smile, "you look a little green around the, uh . . . gills. Let me guess – you're feeling worse than Sara is right now?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd go that far," he said with a shamefaced grin, "but I'll leave it at this: if one of us doesn't survive this, it's going to be me and not her. Progress has pretty much stopped," he added. "The doctor says that this is the part of labor that can last for hours. So we just . . . wait. If any of you want to see her, it's open visiting hours at the moment."

Grissom stepped back just in time to avoid the crush as seven people shot to standing positions and headed toward him. "Whoa, guys," he attempted, to no avail, "if you all go stampeding in there she's probably going to kick you right out again." No response from the others, aside from the dirty looks. He sighed, pondering how much he hated being the gatekeeper and knowing he'd be catching a lot of flack during this long night.

But then, half of this was his fault to begin with, he reminded himself with a tiny smile. And he pretty happy about that. Er, well . . . he'd be happy if he, Sara, and their baby all came out of this rather stressful night unscathed.

With that thought lingering, he turned and followed the rest of his friends toward Sara.


	114. pation

"Too quiet," Nick commented apprehensively, looking toward the room they'd been thrown out of three hours ago. "Isn't she supposed to be screaming?" He rubbed the side of his face, trying to hide his worry.

Catherine glanced across the room to where Sara's parents were sitting, leaning into each other with silent support. Steve appeared to be reassuring his wife, and Catherine wondered if they were discussing the same thing her group was. With a sigh, she joined Nick in looking toward the hallway. "We don't know that. We aren't even sure if she's far enough into labor to be in that much pain. Sometimes these things can take up to 24 hours."

All three men stared at her with dropped jaws. "You're kidding me," Greg breathed. "She's going to be doing this for another whole day?" He shook his head. "I'm so glad I'm not female."

Susan didn't join in the laughter that followed Greg's comment. She was still looking anxiously toward the hallway that held her friend somewhere in its walls, too nervous to move her eyes. 

She didn't know it, but she was having many of the same thoughts Grissom had been having all day. Sara was small, and Susan had watched her sister, who was about Sara's size, struggle with giving birth for hours on end a few years ago. 

Like Nick, she was more frightened by the silence than she would have been by screaming.

****************

Grissom looked at Sara. Sara looked back at him, eyes narrowed. "Sara, honey," he wheedled, "you don't have to pretend nothing's going on. We're – you're – about to have a baby, the doctor's almost ready to have you start pushing, and you haven't made a sound."

She managed a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "I'm fine, don't worry."

Grissom and the nurse who was attending Sara exchanged looks. "Sara," the nurse began, "there's no reason to be ashamed of being in pain. I've never had a mother in here who wasn't in terrible pain at this point."

"I'm fine," Sara said again. "Where's the doctor? I want to push."

Her tone would almost have been believable if her jaw hadn't been so tense that Grissom feared she would crack it, or if her face weren't perfectly white, or if she weren't sweating so hard. All three signs were present, though, and he knew it was pure stubbornness that was preventing Sara from voicing her pain.

Grissom ran a towel lightly over her forehead, collecting the sweat, and gave her a Look as he bent over to do it. "Come on," he whispered, an inch away from her ear, "I'll feel like I didn't father a good enough baby to make you scream."

Sara's eyes widened and her jaw relaxed a little. She didn't say anything out loud, but her eyes communicated exactly what she was thinking, and it involved some rude words. Then she smiled. Just a little, but enough for him to see and take comfort in.

When he tried to pull back from her into a standing position, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him back down. Now an inch from _his_ ear, she whispered, "You make me scream anyway."

Grissom gaped at her. He wasn't sure if it was a reference to their sex life or their fights, but either way, he was pleased that she still had her sense of humor in the middle of the pain.

The moment was broken when the door swung open, revealing Sara's doctor, who was merrily snapping on a pair of gloves. Before the woman could say anything, Sara caught the look in Grissom's eyes and said clearly, "No, dear, you can't play with them."

Doctor, nurse, and not-quite-husband all stared at her, then began to laugh. "Well, Sara," said Dr. Franks, "I'm glad to see you're still in a good mood. We'll see how long that lasts. Ready for me to check you?" She carried out her task in comforting silence, then stood to face the woman on the bed. "Ok, you're at 10cm. Let's get this show on the road!"

"Is this really necessary?" Sara asked desperately, looking around as she was pushed down the hallway with her legs half in the air. She forgot about her embarrassment quickly when another contraction hit her, the most painful one yet. Shutting her eyes tightly, she gritted her teeth and waited for it to pass.  A large, warm hand covered her belly over the hospital gown and she opened her eyes to see Grissom watching her with concern. "I'm fine," she repeated. That phrase was becoming her refrain for the night.

*********

Nick and Susan sat slightly away from the rest of the group, discussing their worries. "My second-oldest sister is tiny," Nick said quietly, "but I think she's still bigger than Sara, width-wise. And Jen had to have a C-section because her pelvis wasn't wide enough." He glanced back toward the hallway. "The fact that she's quiet . . . it scares me."

"I know. It took my sister eight hours. I thought she was going to break into little pieces with the effort she was putting in."

Nick put a comforting arm around Susan. "But Sara's a fighter. She won't just fade away. I have a feeling she's determined to have this baby her way, come hell or high water."

********

"Push!"

A grunt.

"Again! Come on, Sara, put some effort into it!"

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Ok, relax."

She sucked in the deepest breath she could manage, fighting the vertigo that was swirling around her. Who knew that going without oxygen for nearly a minute of pushing could make a person this dizzy?

When she managed to open her eyes, she was gratified, in a vague sense, to see Grissom leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, rubbing his forehead. Then another contraction seized her.

"Come on, push," the doctor ordered. "You're getting there, Sara, come on. As hard as you can."

Air escaped her tightly pursed lips in a high-pitched stream. Sight and sound faded out as she devoted every atom of energy in her body to pushing. Her throat closed for a moment, then reopened. There was a hand on her stomach, one on her left foot, and another on her brow. The one on her brow was Grissom's; she knew that without looking. She pushed again with all her strength, her upper body rising off the bed as it bowed with the effort.

"Ok." A disappointed sort of tsk came from the vicinity of her legs.

She fell back against the bed, again drawing in every bit of air she could fit into her lungs. There was no way she was going to survive this; there was no way that a baby that felt like it was the size of a watermelon was going to make it out of her body.

Grissom's tinny voice drifted to her ears. "How much longer?" he was asking the doctor. "Is she going to be able to do this? She looks so weak."

A quieter voice: "It's been fifty-five minutes, Mr. Grissom. This stage usually takes one to two hours for a first time mother. The baby could crown on the next push, or thirty pushes from now. I can't tell you exactly when; I can only tell you that, assuming there are no complications because of her size, she isn't any worse off right now than any other woman would be."

She didn't know if she could make it through thirty more. She didn't know if she could make it through one more. All she wanted right now was for the pain to go away, and to be able to sleep. She was so tired . . . She winced as the pain returned.

"Come on, sweetie," Grissom's voice said into her hair. "You promised you wouldn't wimp out." She felt him smile, then lost all sense of feeling as she again focused on pushing.

"Sara, breathe," the doctor ordered. "You need to breathe like you learned to or you're just going to make things more difficult for yourself and for us."

She tried to breathe, but felt like her muscles were too focused on her lower body to cooperate. Her body was concerned with nothing right now other than the need to push the baby out. Complex thought, digestion, and sight and sound all fell by the wayside as her body struggled. Every muscle she had was flexed and straining.

"Good, Sara! Keep pushing! Pushpushpush!"

A guttural sound escaped her throat. "Guhhhhhhhhh . . ."

"Come on," Grissom ordered. "Make noise, let it out."

"_Push_!"

She gave up on breathing and thinking entirely and pushed so hard that her body ought to have turned inside out.

An indrawn breath from the doctor. "Ok, Sara, relax." When Sara had recovered enough consciousness to open her eyes and Grissom was sure he wasn't going to keel over, Dr. Franks smiled at both of them. "A few more, Sara, and that should do it. The baby's head is just about there, you'll probably crown on the next contraction."

Ruth Franks watched with a small smile as mother and father stared at each other, amazed that they were going to make it through this ordeal. The eyes were always the same, she mused, no matter who was in the bed. Always wide and liquid and joyous, with a hint of a victorious gleam in the background.

Sara's body clenched again, and this time she didn't fight it. Grissom's hand in a death grip in one hand, the bedclothes in a similar grip with the other, she pushed. Somewhere, there was more energy, and she dug it out for the home stretch. Time stopped.

"Good!" It was nothing that hadn't been said throughout the day, but the tone behind it told Sara that her baby was about to enter the world. She was glad something could tell her that, because she couldn't feel anything down there anymore. Her body was numb.

She heard Grissom suck in his breath. His hand went lax in hers. "Sara . . ." he breathed so quietly that she could hardly hear him. "The baby . . ."

A squall rent the air and Sara's eyes flew open. Their baby was here.

She stared, awestruck for a few seconds. Then a curtain of black swept across her field of vision and she fell back against the bed.

**A/N: **Everything I know about labor and delivery, I learned from TLC's A Baby Story and the internet. Any mistakes are just me being dumb and not researching thoroughly enough.


	115. When I'm up, I can't get down

Before anyone could move, Sara muttered, "I'm ok." Her eyes didn't open, and she was still pale, but she was talking. "I think my blood pressure just jumped off a cliff or something. Blacked out for a second, but I'm ok." She heard Grissom's breath leave his body in a rush as he expressed his relief.

"In that case, Sara," the doctor noted wryly, "you might want to open your eyes and see your daughter." The baby had, surprisingly, quieted. Though she was still voicing complaints about the cold air, she was no longer screaming.

Sara opened her eyes.

********************

The group sat in silence. It had been nearly five hours since they'd arrived at the hospital, and no word had come from the delivery room, other than the one time they had been allowed to see Sara, which had been hours ago.

"Steve . . ." Amy Sidle's voice was nearly inaudible as she fought the worry that was close to overtaking her.

Her husband slowly swiveled his head around to face her, then rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand and tried to smile. "These things take time, Am. You didn't exactly just pop Sara out on a sneeze, either, remember. If there were a problem, we'd know." He hoped he was right.

Nick tried not to move too much. Susan was dozing against his shoulder, finally tired out from her pacing and panicking, and he was loath to wake her.  "She's fine," he thought to himself. "This is a hospital; Jen got exactly the care she needed when she had Laura in a similar place. They'll know what to do if something's wrong." Susan shifted her weight against him and her mouth came in brief contact with his shoulder. Nick smiled.

Warrick nudged Catherine, who was leaning against him, staring at the ceiling. "Look at Nick."

With a yawn, Catherine turned to look. Nick was sitting on the next set of chairs from them. He couldn't seem to decide what he felt; first his face reflected deep worry about Sara, then the next moment it relaxed into a smile as he looked down at the woman sleeping on him. "Love is in the air," she muttered. "Must be the female hormones flying around the maternity ward."

Warrick smiled dutifully at her joke, then sobered. "Do you think she's ok? It's been a long time." His eyes drifted back toward the hallway they'd spent the hours staring at and he sighed.

"Yeah, War, I think she's fine. I think if she weren't, all hell would be breaking loose, and it's not." She shrugged lightly. "Call it my woman's intuition, but I'm not going to start worrying just yet. Well . . . worrying much, at least."

Greg snored indelicately as he stretched out across the row of chairs nearest the coffee machine.

********************

"Guys!" All heads turned at the sound of Catherine's voice. "He's coming, and he looks like he's so happy he's about to bust."

Forgetting Susan entirely, Nick jumped up to follow Catherine's line of sight. When she woke up after hitting the back of the chair, Susan did the same, giving Nick a dirty look on the way up. Catherine was right – Grissom was coming, and he looked ecstatic.

"Well?" Nick demanded.

Grissom grinned. "Everyone's fine. We have a daughter."

Whistles and cheers greeted this pronouncement, and not only from the group that had gathered for Sara. Other families in the room had been watching the small band of people try to contain their fear, and they welcomed this news as evidence that the women they were worrying about would come out "fine" also.

Catherine ran to hug Grissom, then repeated, "Well?" When Grissom blinked in confusion, she clarified. "Tell us everything. What does she look like, how's Sara feeling, was there any trouble? Spill, come on!"

"Umm . . ." He attempted to gather his thoughts, but was completely unable. "I don't know, Cath! I just had a baby!"

Warrick grinned. "Don't let Sara hear you say that 'you' had a baby, or you won't be having another one!"

Grissom tried to frown at him, but was unsuccessful. "Come on . . . you can see Sara. If you all behave, maybe you can even see the baby." He gestured toward the hallway. "But I'm warning you: I'm serious about behaving. She's completely exhausted, so no upsetting her unless you want me to boot you out."

Nick and Susan were in the lead as the group trailed Grissom down the hallway, followed by Sara's parents, then Greg, Warrick, and Catherine bringing up the rear. They obediently followed him until he stopped at a bank of elevators.

"Uh, Gris?" Greg ventured.

"What?"

"Isn't she somewhere down" – he gestured toward the hallway they'd just walked through – "there?"

"No," Grissom said over his shoulder as he led them into an elevator. "She's in a regular room on the fourth floor now – and trust me, you don't want to go into the other room. It looks like a torture chamber." He could feel the smile still splitting his face, but was unable – and, really, unwilling – to wipe it away.

He tapped on the doorframe before leading their friends into the room. "Sara? Up for some visitors?" When she smiled and nodded, he motioned them in.

********************

Sara's mother hugged her again. "We'll leave you to sleep now, sweetie, but we'll be back tomorrow – and we want to see our granddaughter then!"

Sara smiled weakly, fighting to keep her eyes open. "Ok, Mom. I'll see you then." She watched as Grissom ushered the group out of her room, still smiling. Everyone had been at the hospital for hours, waiting for news of her and the baby. It was a good feeling, knowing that so many people cared about her.

Grissom dragged his chair toward her bed. He'd never seen Sara look so . . . serene. Tired, yes, but it was more than just fatigue. She looked satisfied, he decided. As though she'd just done something important, and, of course, she had. "How you feeling?" he asked in a near-whisper, running a hand over her hair.

"Good." She pulled his hand from her hair and held it, staring at it like it held the secrets of the world. "My god, Gil . . . we have a baby. A daughter."

He smiled. "I know. I can't believe it either. The two of us . . . probably the last two people anyone would have expected to have a child. I'm only just now realizing that even though I would have agreed with those people a year ago . . . this is exactly what I did want. I just didn't know it."

Sara's eyes fluttered closed, but her mouth quirked into a soft smile. "I know. I feel the same way. I have you, and I have our baby . . . I have everything I've ever wanted." She paused, opening her eyes again to look directly into his. "I love you."


	116. I wanna be the minority

There was a moment of silence. Grissom's eyes narrowed and he seemed to be examining Sara. "You said it. Out loud. In those words."

"I know. I, uh . . ." She shrugged helplessly. "It's the right time. And it's the truth."

If he could have picked her up and twirled her around, he would have, but he suspected neither Sara nor the doctor would approve, so he settled for a smacking kiss. She'd explicitly said she loved him, finally! After a year, she'd finally overcome her fear of those three words and was able to say them to him. In one day, she'd given him a beautiful baby and the gift of her words. He didn't know if his heart could take another present from Sara.

"Gris?"

He shook himself from his thoughts, taking in her somber face. "Yeah, I'm here. I was just thinking that if you make me any happier today, I think I'll explode."

Sara grinned. "Oh, well in that case, I won't tell you about . . . oops, nothing," she teased.

"What?!"

"Noooothing." Oh, damn, now she'd have to make up a secret to cover her butt on that joke. Well, Sara was nothing if not cunning, and she set her mind to the task.

***********************

"I can't believe we produced such a beautiful child," Grissom said the next morning as he watched Sara cradle their daughter. "My eyes and your hair – I think she got the best of each of us."

"Yeah," Sara agreed, "but whose brain did she get?"  She drew a finger lightly across the top of the baby's head, stroking the nearly black hair that covered the small head. "I don't know . . . she's got a pretty big head. Must have inherited it from you." This baby was theirs and it was perfect, Sara knew . . . but it was so fun to tease Grissom. 

"Was that an insult or a compliment?"

She grinned. "Don't you wish you knew, bugman." There was silence for a long minute as both parents examined their daughter's face and form. "I don't think there are any words," Sara said finally.

"If there are, I haven't found them yet," Grissom said with a small smile. He reached up to cup the baby's cheek, then Sara's. "So have you come up with any names?"

"I can't believe we forgot to think of baby names. Where the hell were we for the past nine months? I have a couple ideas, but I want to hear yours first." She was rather nervous about this discussion; despite all she knew about Grissom, she didn't know what sort of names he preferred. Well, except "Newton," and she hoped he wouldn't want to name their daughter, too, after a dead scientist.

"Okay . . ." he said slowly, trying to think of the mental list he'd stored away.  "Well, there's 'Judith' or 'Anna' . . ."

" 'Judith' sounds like an old woman. 'Anna' is ok. Next?"

"Well," he said with a small frown, "we're feeling businesslike today."

Sara smiled apologetically. "Sorry. That's just one of those names I associate with grandmothers. I'll try not to shoot you down like that too much. So, what else?"

"Well, my mother's name was Lauren, and your mom's name is Amy, so we could go with either of those, too." He sighed. "I'm no good at this, Sara. Creative stuff like naming is supposed to be the woman's expertise!"

Sara laughed at this, and the baby made a gurgle that might have been an attempt to imitate the sound. "Oh, so you want me to choose? What are you going to do if I decide I just looove the name 'Ecklie' for our little girl?"

"Ugh. Anything but that!" He gave her a dark look. "There will be no naming of children after people either of us hates."

With a giggle, she said in an chiding tone, "Oh, now it's '_children_,' huh Gill? You planning another one before we even get this little tyke named?"

His face turned red. He hadn't meant it in that way, but now that she mentioned it . . . "Er . . . no?"

Carefully shifting the baby in her arms, Sara sat up and kissed him gently. "I'm kidding. Mostly, at least. Let's leave off discussing multiple rugrats until we figure out how to take care of this one."

"Deal," he said with a grin. "Ok, now it's your turn. What names do you like?"

She lay back against the bed and turned thoughtful eyes to the ceiling. "Hmmm, good question. Well, I like both 'Susan' and 'Catherine,' though it would probably be bad politics to name her one of those. I also think 'Lauren' is a beautiful name, not the least because it belonged to your mom, but it makes me nervous to name her after anyone we know, because then someone else will be jealous, and it'll all go downhill from there."

Grissom nodded pensively. "Good point, I hadn't thought of that. Well, let's start our decision-making at the beginning: do we want her to have a name that's commonplace, one that's a little unusual, or one that makes people say 'huh?'"

"I have a common name, and it's not bad . . . but it's boring. I always wanted be named something more unusual, like 'Robin or 'Celina' – nothing drastic, you know, but a name that there wouldn't be fifty of in every class I took in school. But I wouldn't have wanted to be named 'Moon Unit' or anything, either – those poor Zappas. So I guess my vote goes to a name that's unusual but not impossible. What about you?"

"Well, I have an . . . old-fashioned name. I guess it made sense to my mom, but no one is named 'Gilbert' anymore – it makes people laugh. I don't want our daughter to have people hear her name and laugh, but I concur with not wanting to have her be one of twenty 'Mary's or 'Karen's. Based on that, I agree with you – I say let's choose one that's unusual but not freakish."

Sara sighed. "So that only leaves us with twenty million names to choose from. How do people do this?!"

**A/N: **What do you think their daughter should be named? I have an idea of what I want her to be, but I'm open to suggestions from you guys. So let me know!


	117. You gotta fight for your right to party

Nick surveyed the rooms he was facing, trying to pin down what was missing in Grissom's house. 

The counter separating the kitchen and the living room was well-fortified with food, soft drinks, and alcohol; he had set that area up himself after careful deliberation and planning. A small bowl of egg salad sat on the corner of the setup, more for humor than consumption, though he did hope that Sara would no longer vomit at the smell of it.

Further down the counter, Greg was artfully arranging a circular platter of vegetables and dip. Sara's favorites, green beans and carrots, covered the lion's share of the tray in neat slices, while the rest of the assortment, comprising such things as celery, mushrooms, and broccoli, were in a messier semicircle on the other side of the platter. In the center of the arrangement sat a hollowed-out bowl of dark bread that was waiting to be filled with the spinach dip that Nick had just finished mixing up.

Catherine was supervising the decoration of the living room, which seemed to consist mainly of shouting directions to Warrick, who was doing the actual work in that room. Already the walls held a large, printed banner, a cluster of balloons, and a new, framed insect. Warrick was currently struggling with another, smaller banner with an assortment of mathematical and chemical symbols covering it.

Susan and Brass were closeted in the room that had formerly been known as Grissom's office. The group in the kitchen and living room could occasionally hear their raised voices as the mismatched pair argued about where to put this decoration or that baby toy. Nick idly wondered how in the world Brass had ended up on interior design detail; he just hoped that the baby's room wouldn't come out looking like a tweed suitcoat, which seemed to be the height of the captain's style as far as anyone could tell.

Then it hit him; he knew what was missing: this was the first time in a year or more that anyone had been in Sara's old apartment or her current home with Grissom without hearing a heated argument, about Sara's eating habits or anything else. "Man," he said to Greg, "it's too quiet in here with no one fighting."

As if on cue, Catherine's voice rose above the dull roar Nick had gotten used to. "No, War. Over THERE! Up, up . . . more, Warrick. Geez, is every single man in the world born without a sense of symmetry? Can we at least _attempt_ to have the top of the banner level, please?"

"Well sor-ry," Warrick shot back at her. "Why don't you go get a three-foot high chair to stand on so you can do this job? Oh, wait, no such thing," he added tartly. "Too bad, looks like you're going to have to deal with my incompetent work."

Ahhh, Nick thought – this was more like it. Having the entire team – or nearly – together outside of work without at least one fight breaking out had been making him nervous. Speaking of fighting . . . it was suspiciously quiet in the baby's room. He sighed and headed down the hallway to make sure they hadn't killed each other.

"Listen, Jim," Susan's voice rang out as he reached the doorway. "You can't put the blanket in there like that. Where have you been for the last twenty years? It's unsafe to have voluminous covers in an infant's crib!"

"Listen, young lady," Brass retorted, "I have a daughter older than you, so don't tell me I don't know how to care for a baby!"

Oh, no.

"Anything I can help with?" Nick asked with forced cheer, popping his head into the room, hoping there would be no bloodshed. Good, no overt signs of battle. The room looked snug, actually. The crib was against the east wall, perpendicular to a window that was covered with curtains bearing a detailed map of the stars; against the wall opposite the crib were three bookshelves and a child-sized dresser, and the top of each wall bore a wallpaper border with images of the planets, to scale. Yep, this was a room for a child being born to geeks.

Brass and Susan had moved on from the blanket argument, and were now carrying on a heated discussion on the merits of the room's color scheme, which, like everything on the walls, had been applied somewhat inexpertly by Grissom. "Well I just happen to think it's a little too dark," Brass was saying.

"What, you thought Grissom and Sara would decide to decorate their child's room in pink fluffy bunnies or something?"

Brass frowned, knowing he was caught. "Well, no, but . . ."

"Hah!" Susan crowed. "I win!" She grinned at the policeman and turned to survey the results of their work on the room. "You know," she said, feeling charitable now that she'd won the argument, "you and I make a good team. Next time Sara has a baby, I think we should campaign to have control of room decorating from the beginning."

Brass groaned. "God help us all if we do!" Despite his gruff tone, though, his face betrayed the affection he was beginning to feel for the young woman who resembled Ellie.

"Catherine!" Warrick's voice roared through the house, making the trio in the bedroom jump. "I know how to hang things! I know how to use a level! But _geez_, it's a welcome-home banner, not an Egyptian pyramid or something!"

Catherine's answer came in the form of a snort. Something crashed to the floor, then Nick heard a high-pitched sound that he didn't think had come from Catherine. Uh-oh, she had Warrick screaming again. Before he reached the front of the house again, Warrick's screams had morphed into weak squeals from Catherine; yep, all was well with those two.

He reached the end of the hallway and again surveyed the results of everyone's efforts. Greg had finished the vegetable platter and neatened up the counter some more, adding his contribution to the celebration: a four-layer fudge cake that he swore any woman would die for.

Despite the raised voices it had caused, Nick thought the living room looked wonderful. The banners both looked even to him, and their custom-printed messages would make everyone smile.

"Hey Greg!" he called over his shoulder. "Time check?"

"T-minus thirteen minutes," the younger man chirped. "Or, if you prefer, ETA is now twelve minutes thirty."

Warrick met Nick's eyes and shook his head with a laugh. 


	118. I could not ask for more

"I really hope they didn't destroy the house," Grissom said for the third time since they'd left the hospital. He didn't like the idea of six rambunctious friends having the run of his house, especially with the bugs and the dog.

Steve Sidle turned from his position in the passenger seat of Grissom's car and looked at his daughter and Grissom. "I'm sure they haven't broken anything, guys. They've only been alone for a few hours, anyway; it's not like they've been camping out in there since Sara had the baby."

Sara nodded, agreeing with her father. "Dad's right, Gil. The worst that's going to happen is that Newton's going to snitch all the food they set up, or her tail will knock over a present." She shifted in her seat to look at the baby in the car seat separating her and Grissom in the backseat. She couldn't help it; every time she saw her daughter she smiled. She wondered for a moment if it would always be like this, and concluded that it probably would be.

"Ok kids," Sara's mother said brightly, "we're almost home! All set?"

"Yeah, Mom, as long as there's someone to carry the car seat, someone to carry the diaper bag, someone to carry the suitcase, and someone to carry the baby." She paused, pretending to count. "How many hands do we have between us, again?"

Grissom laughed. "We have plenty of limbs, honey. It's my turn to hold my daughter, by the way; you can get the diaper bag."

"Gee, thanks."

When the car was in park, Grissom helped Sara out and formed the beginning of the assembly line. First came the diaper bag and suitcase from the trunk, each of which was handed off to one of Sara's parents. Next came the baby, who was handed to Sara for temporary holding. Finally, Grissom tugged the car seat free and set it on the ground, then held out his arms for their child. Sara scowled but handed her over, then picked up the car seat.

Before Steve could get his hands on the doorknob, the front door flew open, revealing a very excited Greg with an equally excited Nick grinning over his shoulder. 

"Welcome home, you guys!" Nick announced. "Come in, come in . . . your party awaits you, and we await our turns to pass the baby around."

Grissom raised an eyebrow and gave Nick a smug smile. "Mine. You guys can have her when I get bored of her."

Sara nudged Grissom in the side, laughing skeptically. "Judging by the way you've been acting so far, Gris, that's going to be a big, fat 'never'." Pushing past Grissom, who was still gazing at his guests with narrowed eyes, Sara lowered the car seat to the floor and threw herself into Nick's arms for a hug.

"My god, Sara, you feel deflated! . . . Ow!" he yelped as her fist connected with his shoulder blade.

"First you make me spend nine months in fear of what you're going to do to make me cry or throw up next, and now you're making fun of the baby weight? Bad idea, Nicky! New mothers get cranky easily!"  She released him and hugged Greg, then smiled at the rest of the group, who were gathered in the living room.

"Come in, guys! In, in," Nick ordered, shooing all four of them through the door into the living room.

Grissom, Sara, and her parents stepped inside and got their first good look at the room. Each member of the group had a unique reaction to what they saw: Amy Sidle laughed and clapped her hands, her husband grinned widely and slapped Nick on the back, Sara's eyes widened, and Grissom looked shocked.

Sara read the larger banner out loud, grinning hugely at the effort everyone had put into making them happy. "Congratulations, Sara and Grissom! Godparents for Rent, Enquire Within." She smirked. "That's great guys, thanks. We'll just have to see who treats us the nicest before we decide on godparents." She turned to check Grissom's reaction and found him studying the smaller banner. "Gris?"

He looked at her and blinked, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "Hey Sara . . . is that what I think it is?" he asked, gesturing to what he'd been reading.

Sara squinted, examining the strange symbols. "Oh my god, it is! Guys, that is amazing, you know us too well! Thank you!" 

The smaller banner said this: 

_WeλCOμe Hoμe, GaLiNa ΛAreN_

Noticing her parents' puzzled looks, Sara translated. "It's a mix of chemical symbols and Greek letters from mathematical notation. 'W' is Tungsten, 'e' is a decimal place abbreviation, that strange triangle is the Greek letter lambda, the 'C' and 'O' are chemical symbols for Carbon and Oxygen, the thing that looks like a backward 'u' is the Greek letter mu . . . hmm, what else. 'H' is Hydrogen. 'Ga' is the symbol for Gallium, 'Li' is Lithium, and 'Na' is Sodium. Then the 'Ar' is Argon, and 'N' is Nitrogen." 

She surveyed her audience, realizing that her parents were totally lost. "Or, to summarize . . . they wrote 'Welcome Home, Galina Laren' using math and chemistry."

Her parents' faces lightened. "Oh, Sara, they know you too well!" her father chided laughingly. "Only you and Gil would understand those things and be able to figure out what it meant."

Her mother sighed. "Galina . . . such a beautiful name." She reached over and kissed her now-slumbering granddaughter's forehead. " 'Bright one' . . . yes, I think it fits her well."

"Sara," Grissom said softly so as not to wake the baby, "let's go put her to bed and check out the damage they all did to her room."

Sara nodded and followed him down the hall. "We'll be right back to party, guys." 

When they were in the baby's room, Grissom gently laid her down in the crib, checking to make sure that everything in it was as the baby books they'd read said it should be. No pillow, no bumpers, no stuffed toys, no mobile . . . everything was safe. This crib wouldn't be her real bed for a month or more, though; they'd decided to put a smaller crib, a donation from Catherine, in the master bedroom with them for the first few weeks. 

With the baby safely asleep, Sara, who had been scanning the room, let out a breath and hugged Grissom tightly. "Wow. They did an awesome job with this place." Grissom kissed the top of her head and she looked up, smiling softly. "You know, it's a strange feeling . . . everything we do the past few days is new. We have a baby in this house, Gil! Our own little girl."

"Galina Laren," he responded, hugging her tighter. "Thank you for deciding to use 'Laren,' Sara. I think my mom's smiling down right now and forgiving us for the spelling change. God, we have such a beautiful daughter. How in the world did the two of us produce her?"

"I don't know. I really don't . . . I think we need to just accept that we created perfection." She tilted her head up and kissed him deeply, trying to convey what she felt. When she opened her eyes, his beautiful blue ones were staring into hers.

"I love you." Grissom leaned over the edge of the crib to look at his daughter. "And I love you, little girl," he said in what Sara would have called a coo if she hadn't been so sure that he'd bristle at the label. Straightening up again, he wrapped his arms around Sara's waist and smiled. "Sara . . . I'm going to try this again."

"What?"

"You'll see." Before she could respond to this avoidance, his arms had dropped from her waist and he'd taken her hands, rubbing their backs with his thumbs. "I'm not going to do this the classic way because I don't know that I could get up again, and I suspect it would look pretty funny. So I'm just going to . . ."

"Grissom!" Sara interrupted. "Spill it! What are you talking about?"

He shut his eyes tightly and did his best to do as she'd ordered. "Sara . . . I love you. Marry me, please. For _you_, not for the baby or your parents or anyone else. Please." His eyes didn't open; he was terrified of what this action could yield.

"Gil . . . I . . ." Sara's hand cupped his cheek gently.

A/N: The name 'Galina' is Russian and means "bright one." I first heard it in the movie **Center Stage** (Galina was the Russian dancer's girlfriend) and I just love the sound of it. Say it out loud, it's like it sparkles on your tongue! 'Laren' is just the name 'Lauren' with a different spelling that I happen to prefer for some reason.


	119. Through the storm we reach the shore

Grissom watched her eyes closely as she thought about what he'd just asked, but her face wasn't giving anything away. Had he screwed it up again? Had he been hideously unromantic? Or did she really not want to marry him? Whatever it was, she certainly wasn't prostrating herself at his feet and begging for a ring.

"Um . . ." Sara stuttered again, floored by his question. She hated being blindsided like this; it automatically made her want to say no to whatever was being thrown at her, but she really didn't want to say no this time. She didn't want to say yes, either, at the moment – what she really wanted to do was give Grissom a good whack in the head for doing this to her.

She was saved from having to answer him by the bell - or by the baby, to be more accurate - as Galina chose that moment to wake up and start crying. Moving quickly, Sara scooped her up, dropping kisses onto the baby's head. "It's ok sweetie, are you hungry? Yes you are . . ."

Grissom watched this, knowing exactly what she was doing: tuning him out. Yes, the baby was crying, but Sara was taking advantage of it to avoid answering him. "You're dodging the issue."

"Shh," she said with a scowl. "I've got to feed the baby, can you just chill out?"

"No. Because once you're done feeding her, you'll have 'forgotten' what I asked, and then it'll be time to go back to the party so we're not rude to our guests, and then we certainly won't be able to discuss it in front of people, and then the baby will be hungry again . . . you're hiding, Sara."

She started unbuttoning her shirt. "So what if I am? I don't owe you anything."

This wasn't going well. He sighed. "I'm not trying to corner you, you know. If you don't want to marry me, say 'no' and that'll be the end of it." 

Sara ignored him, concentrating on the child in her arms. She was still getting the hang of this whole breast-feeding thing, and it required attention to get the baby and herself into the right positions. Plus, she _was_ avoiding the conversation – but did Grissom have to say it out loud?

Grissom held his peace until she had the baby settled and nursing. Knowing how much effort had gone into getting in that position, he was sure that Sara wasn't going anywhere for the next ten minutes. He placed himself behind her chair and laid gentle hands on her shoulders, rubbing them.

Sara's mouth tightened. "You _are_ cornering me, Gil, and I don't like it. Why'd you have to throw this at me all of a sudden?"

"For heaven's sake, Sara," he said incredulously, "I've been asking you the same question in different forms for the past – what? – six months or so? And now you're telling me I've shocked you by asking again?"

She looked down at the baby again, formulating her answer. "No, I don't mean I'm shocked that you asked again. I mean that I'm shocked you just did it totally randomly, right now. With a houseful of people twenty feet down the hall and a three-day old baby crying next to us."

He shrugged. "I'm honestly out of patience. I need to know, just for my peace of mind. I'm not saying that it's all or nothing, that you have to marry me to have me," he added quickly. Then, after trying to find a way to explain himself, he tried to clarify things. "I just need to be able to set the question to rest in my head."

"Right. So you're not threatening me right now," she scoffed.

"I'm not. Either way, you know there's no way I'll ever leave you. Or you should know that, if you don't." He left her shoulders and moved around to squat in front of her. "Maybe I just want to know if I should return the ring."

That got her attention. "You bought me a ring?"

Aha! He had her hooked now; all he needed to figure out now was how to reel her in. A teasing note entered his voice. "Maybe . . . I guess you won't ever know if you don't give me an answer."

"Gil Grissom, you are such a beast!"

"Ah, my dear, but I'm a beast who may or may not have something sparkly to give you. And I _know_ that you want to find out whether I do or not." He stood up, grinning down at her.

A small burp came from Sara's chest area. She laughed and stood up to burp the baby, then laid her back in the crib. "Of course I want to know. And I suppose the price is me giving you an answer?"

"That would be it. Well, and a kiss."

"Bastard."

"I prefer 'brilliant.' Or at least 'rat bastard,' if you must use that word." He laid his hands on her hips without pulling her toward him, content just to touch her. "So?"

"Fine."

"Uh . . . 'fine,' what?"

" 'Fine,' I'll marry you." She couldn't hide the smile that broke across her face when Grissom gave her a look of utter disbelief.

"Did I just hear you say 'fine,' as an answer to my proposal?"

"Yeah," she said with a laughing nod. "I thought it fit the manner in which the question was posed. 'I'm not going to do this the traditional way because I might not be able to get up again' isn't exactly the height of romance either." She stepped closer to him, clasping her hands together behind her back. "Sooo . . . is there a ring, or isn't there?"

Grissom held up a finger. "Ah, just wait, my dear. Stay here for a few minutes."

"Why? I want to see it!"

"Just do it."

"Ooookay."

Five minutes later he still wasn't back. Sara was tapping her foot impatiently when she heard the click of Newton's nails on the hall floor. Moving to intercept the dog before Newton, otherwise known as "The Tail," could infiltrate the baby's nice, clean room, she snagged hold of the dog's collar just outside the doorframe.

Something felt strange – the collar wasn't soft in her hand. "Hey, why are you wearing the expensive one?" she asked the happily panting canine. "Are you dressed up for the party?" She leaned down to confirm that Newton was, indeed, wearing the gold collar instead of nylon. 

She was, and there was something hanging from it, right next to the dog's tags. Upon closer examination, it was revealed to be a small silk bag, and Sara was pretty sure she could guess what she was going to find in it. "Might as well come back in, Gris! I found the bag!"

"In a minute. This is part of the romance bit."

Just like him, she thought fondly. Once he decided he was going to go for the 'romance bit,' he laid out his plans carefully. "Ok, fine. I'm opening it . . ."

She didn't say anything for a long minute and Grissom abandoned his waiting in favor of entering the room to see what was going on. "Sara?" He was hit by a set of flying arms that snaked around him.

"Oh my god, Gris, this isn't a ring, it's _the ring_!" 

"Does that mean you like it?"

"It means I think you read my mind while I sleep." She turned the ring over in her hand, examining it closely. "Anyone else would automatically have thought that bigger is better, but you got it right." She slipped it onto her finger. 

The ring didn't overwhelm her slim fingers at all; instead it seemed to compliment them. A moderately-sized circular diamond graced the top of what was either a white gold or platinum band, flanked by two much smaller marquise-cut stones the color of flames. "What are these?" she asked, pointing to the colored stones.

"Padparadscha Sapphire."

The name meant nothing to Sara, but she filed it away in her head for further research. "My god," she said suddenly, "did I really just agree to marry you?"

Grissom flushed. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No! No, that's not it." She hugged him tightly. "It's just that you seem to have this way of making me jump off the diving board without actually pushing me. I really do think you have latent psychic powers and you use them to find out exactly what to say to make me comfortable."

Grissom, still trying to interpret that explanation, decided that he could puzzle over it later; right now he just wanted to enjoy knowing that Sara was going to marry him and that she was hugging him. He raised his hands slowly and wrapped them around her waist.

"Oh damn," Sara muttered into his neck. "Now we have to plan a wedding."


	120. Closest to heaven that I'll ever be

"What do you guys think they're doing in there?" Nick asked the room at large, trying to decide whether to be worried or just amused. "It's been" – he checked his watch – "twenty-five minutes. It doesn't take that long to put a baby in a crib."

"You never know man," Warrick said lightly, "they're both pretty new at this." He snitched a fingerful of icing off the top of Greg's cake, then looked guiltily at Catherine's disapproving expression. "What? I'm hungry."

Susan grinned at Warrick, then poked Nick in the side. "Oh come on, guys – I think we're all intelligent enough to deduce what is and isn't going on in there." She slapped Nick's hand away as he reached for the cake, then smirked. "That's for Sara. Behave yourself. Anyway, here's what's _not_ going on in there: they're not getting it on." 

Warrick, Nick, and Greg all gave her enquiring looks and Susan had to laugh. "Ask Catherine or Brass later. I'm sure you'll be, uh, fascinated." Holding up another finger to indicate that she was moving on to number two, she added, "And they're not fighting, because if they were we'd be hearing it."

"I heard raised voices, though," Greg protested. "Something about a beast, which doesn't sound too positive."

Catherine gave Greg a pat on the head. "You're so innocent . . . you don't have the experience in watching them fight that we all have. Trust me, if they were fighting there would be things flying across the room and lots of screaming. And less-polite words than 'beast,' too." Looking back to Susan, she winked. "Go on. What else is and isn't going on?"

"So these are my theories for what _might_ be going on in that room: they could be staring at the baby, trying to process reality; they could be debating whether to bring her back out here; they could still be examining the room; the baby might be eating right now; or lastly – and my money's on this one – there's some momentous discussion going on right now. Maybe he's proposing again."

"Again?" Nick groaned. "That bombed last time. Let's just hope she doesn't spend the night at your house again, Sue."

"Wonder why you wish that, Nick," Susan said mischievously and slid her eyes toward him, giving him a coy look. Then, returning her gaze to the rest of the group, she answered Catherine. "Which brings us back to the fact that there is no screaming or crashing coming from where they are," she said. "Last time he asked, she blew her top right off the bat. If she hasn't now, then maybe she's actually listening to what he has to say."

"Sweet!" Nick and Greg chorused. "I wanna be the best man," Greg continued.

Nick snorted. "Yeah, right. Dude, no way is he picking you. Now myself, however . . . I'm in the running."

"Guys," Catherine said in a voice that sought to be stern, but didn't quite make it, "why don't you leave that argument until we find out what really is going on right now. _Then_ we'll see which of us they like best."

"Spoilsport," Warrick complained, earning himself an elbow in the ribs.

"Speak of the devil," Brass interrupted, speaking for the first time in fifteen minutes, "I think I hear footsteps." 

All eyes turned to the hallway, from where the pair in question was indeed approaching. Grissom didn't look bruised, and Sara was smiling subtly. "Everything ok, guys?" Catherine asked, braving the silence.

"Yeah, Catherine," Grissom said cheerfully, "everything's fine. Dandy, in fact."

Sara, the baby cradled in her arms, turned to gape at him. "Gil Grissom, did you just say the word 'dandy'? Ok, you're much weirder than even _I_ thought . . ." Rolling her eyes at their audience, she shook her head to indicate just how nuts she thought he was. "So who wants Galya first?"

" 'Gal-ya?" Brass asked hesitantly with a raised eyebrow.

"Well we can't use her full name every time we refer to her, Jim," Grissom said with an amused look. "We'd run out of time and energy. And 'Galya' is the typical diminutive for the name 'Galina,' thus, Galina shall hereby be called Galya by those who know and love her. Now," he added, satisfied with the explanation, "like Sara said, who wants her first?"

A chorus of "Me!" rocked the room as everyone spoke at once. Galina's head rolled around on Sara's shoulder in an attempt to see where all the noise was coming from, and she whimpered. Within seconds of hearing this sound, the room had fallen quiet and Sara spoke. "Cath, why don't you take her, since you were the beginning of all this." The two women exchanged smiles, enjoying everyone else's confusion, and Catherine stood up to carefully take the baby.

"Oh, Sara, she's beautiful," she said. "And she's completely got your eyes, Gil. Hi honey," Catherine cooed as the baby's eyes flitted to her face. "Hello beautiful Galya!" 

The baby's arms flailed in the general direction of Catherine's face and one tiny fist connected with her chin. Catherine groaned exaggeratedly and drew her head back as if it had been a punch. "Yep, Sara, she's your kid. Just as hot-tempered." She looked down at Galina, whose face was turning slightly red, and sighed in disappointment. "I think she wants Mom back."

As Sara reached out to take the child, something on her hand caught the light, drawing the other woman's attention. After taking a closer look, Catherine raised her eyebrows silently at Sara and Grissom, both of whom nodded slightly in response. A grin split Catherine's face and she tried to suppress it before she turned back toward the group.

Sitting back down next to Warrick, she slipped a hand behind his back and squeezed to get his attention. He turned to her, one eyebrow quirked, and she shifted her eyes toward Sara and attempted to be subtle. "*cough*ring*cough*"  His eyes opened wide and his eyes flew to the area Catherine was staring at.

"Damn!" was out of his mouth before he could catch it, and he flushed under the attention that turned to him. "Your, uh . . ." He tilted his head toward Sara. "Your ring."

"Her WHAT?" Sara's mother cried, springing out of her chair and turning to give her daughter her most frightening tell-me-the-truth-young-lady look. "Sara Ann?"

"Ummmm . . ." Shrinking a little under her mother's scrutiny, Sara handed Galina to Grissom, who gave her a smirk, and walked to her mom, slipping off the ring and handing it to her. 

She stood in embarrassed silence as Amy Sidle examined it, then handed it back to her and spoke. "This is an engagement ring." It wasn't a question.

Wishing she could sink through the floor, Sara said nothing. Why, oh why, did her romantic life always end up being revealed in public without her approval?

"Yes, Mrs. Sidle," Grissom spoke up, moving to stand next to Sara. "I finally convinced her." He offered a tentative smile. Mrs. Sidle's response to this was overridden by the cacophony coming from behind Sara, but at least Grissom could see her smile. 

"She's what?"

"They're engaged?"

"No one told me that!"

"When's the wedding?"

"They're _getting married_?"

"Oh my god!"

"I am _so_ going to beat you out for best man," Nick said loudly, giving Greg a superior look.

"Let me see it!" Susan said insistently, coming up behind Sara, who snatched the item in question back from her mother and handed it to her friend. Susan examined the ring closely. "Damn, Sara, he put thought into this!"

Recovering from her annoyance, Sara managed to grin. "I know . . . I have him so well-trained, don't I?" She laughed, then patted his cheek when Grissom shot her a fierce frown. "Oh, lighten up, bugman. You know there's no way I'll ever be able to 'train' you for real."

Catherine grabbed Susan's arm and pulled her closer. "Sue, we need to plan a _wedding_!"

"That is _exactly_ what I said, Cath," Sara said, and slid her ring back onto her finger.


	121. The moments I'll remember all my life

**A/N:** I call this chapter my "baby montage." The events in it happen at separate times over the course of the week following Galina's birth. 

-----------------------------------------

A squall rent the air and Sara groaned loudly. Rolling over, she clumsily smacked Grissom across the chest with a hand that wanted to go back to sleep. "You do it. I'm asleep."

Grissom, somehow managing to be more awake than his bedmate for once in their lives, turned on his side to face her. Offering her a smug smile, he pushed her hair back so he could see her eyes. "Sure, Sara, if you'll just detach one of your breasts so I can feed her."

Oh, she'd forgotten about that part. "Damn. I hate you sometimes." Shoving the covers aside rudely in the hopes that she'd make Grissom cold, she slid reluctantly off the bed and walked to the crib. It made her feel decidedly un-virtuous to hate getting up in the middle of the day to feed Galina; weren't mothers supposed to put the baby's needs above their own? Ugh . . .

"Ok sweetie, eat fast and we'll both be happy," she suggested to the baby, settling into what she had began to think of as The Nursing Chair. She leaned her head back against the chair and sighed, wishing fervently that this were the fathers' job instead of the mothers'.

***************************

"I am SO not going to be the only diaper-changer in this household, Grissom! No way in hell, so get your ass over to that changing table and act like a father." Sara pointed a stern finger toward the table in question, giving Grissom a fulminating look. "Go on. You have an IQ of 158; I'm sure you can figure it out."

Grissom looked down at the rather smelly child in his arms, who seemed to be staring back up at him accusingly. "Ok, ok, I'm going. I didn't say I wouldn't change her; I just said that you do it better than I do."

"Practice makes perfect. Do it."

With a sigh, Grissom did his best to hold down his wiggling daughter with one hand while the other fumbled to grab and unfold a diaper. "Sara," he whined, "don't they make machines to do this yet?"

With a snort, Sara shook her head. "Not yet, Gris. Besides, I'm having fun watching this. Keep going."

It took him nearly two minutes longer than it usually took Sara, who had five days' more experience than he did, and the baby came out looking slightly lopsided as one side of the diaper drooped, but it was there and it was attached securely to the butt in need of it. Grissom had to pat himself on the back, at least until he caught Sara's laughing look. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking that life would be very fair if, since I'm the one who has to get up every night to feed her, you were the one who got assigned diaper duty permanently."

"No. Please, no. I'll grow boobs. Not the diapers!" he begged in mock-horror.

"Hmm, no," Sara said in a thoughtful tone, "I think this is just about right. I think we're going to do that."

Grissom didn't think she was completely serious . . . but he couldn't be sure.

*******************

"Saraaaaa!" Greg squealed, garnering the attention of everyone within a fifty-foot radius of the break room. "She puked on me!" He held a gurgling Galina out as far away from his body as the cradling position of his arms let him, apparently so any more vomit the baby expelled wouldn't mar his lab coat.

Grissom took her out of Greg's arms and smirked. "Welcome to the club, Sanders. Everyone who's anyone has worn some of Galya's spit-up." He kissed his daughter's forehead and added, "I think she does it on purpose as a sort of initiation. It means she likes you."

Sara giggled. "And if you believe that, I've got a bridge to sell you."

"Oh," said Nick pensively, "I don't know about that, Sara. Check it out – the nightshift group and Susan are, like, the only people besides her parents who she'll let hold her without screaming. I think that means she likes us." To demonstrate, he raised his arms and took the baby as Grissom reluctantly passed her to him. "See, she loves me, she's not cryi . . ." He was cut off as Galina shrieked and burst into tears.

Sara gave him a look of hearty disapproval and took the baby back, calming her. "It's ok sweetie, Uncle Nick's just an idiot." When the tears and screams had quieted, she looked up at everyone. "She probably isn't too pleased about being handed around like, uh . . . like something that gets handed around a lot. Would you be? Yeah, didn't think so," she finished without waiting for an answer. "Brownie points deducted from your campaign for godfather, Nick."

Catherine grinned and made a crash-and-burn noise. "Poor Nicky, you're gonna lose out to Greg or Warrick at the rate you're going."

"Yeah!" Greg crowed, shoving a fist into the air. "So there, Stokes!"

"Or maybe," Grissom said repressively, "she'll end up with two godmothers and no godfather at all if you two don't behave. Out, go," he ordered, starting to herd the team toward the door. "Back to work, show-and-tell is hereby over for the night." When everyone else was gone, he leaned over the baby's head and gave Sara a light kiss. "Go on home and feed her, I'll see you in a few hours."

Sara pouted, but began gathering up the various baby necessities that had been strewn around the room. "Two weeks, Gil. Two weeks until I'm back here and I stop taking orders from you."

He shook his head, laughing. "You do what you want anyway, Sidle, so why bother even listening to my orders? But if it makes you feel better, it's technically thirteen days, not two weeks, until you're back to work and the baby takes up residence in my office surrounded by all the crazies this place houses."

"You know you'd much rather have her here during work than at daycare or something, Gris. Be thankful that we've got this arranged so well."

Ducking his head, he sighed. "You're right as usual on that one. But I suppose I get diaper duty at work too?"

"We can share it here. Or, even better, we can delegate it to the others. And speaking of delegating . . . who _are_ we going to ask to be godparents?"

"We'll see, Sara. How about we discuss it this morning when I get home, and make the decision?"

"Fair enough." She leaned over to kiss his cheek and smiled. "See you later, Gris." And, gathering up diaper bag, clothing, and baby, she was gone from the room.


	122. This I promise you

The woman in the dark suit looked around at the assembled group, smiling warmly. "Welcome, everyone. If you'd like to gather 'round a little tighter, that would probably improve your collective view." A shuffling of feet greeted her pronouncement as the small crowd moved closer to the high table where the woman stood with Grissom, who was cradling the baby, and Sara.

The woman looked to her companions for their approval, then drew in a breath spoke again, this time more authoritatively. "Friends, we've gathered today to welcome a new life to our world in with this simple celebration. Gil and Sara would like to thank you all for being here to celebrate with them and welcome their child.

"A child's life is powerfully affected by the amount of love she receives. In you who are gathered here, this child has found a deep pool of love and devotion, and because of the emotion you offer her, her life will be richer and she will, in turn, be able to love more deeply. For this, Galina thanks you, and in return, her parents would like to share with you her name and it's meaning." 

She swept an arm toward Grissom, who stepped forward and began to speak. "This beautiful girl," he said, holding Galina out toward the friends and family surrounding him as he tried to remember the speech he and Sara had written, "is Galina Laren Grissom. 'Galina' is a Russian name, and as I'm sure you all know, neither Sara nor I is Russian. The reason we chose to give our daughter this first name is the meaning behind the name. 'Galina' means 'bright one' in the language from which it comes, and we believe thoroughly that this baby is and always will be the bright light of our lives. Even before birth, she was a guiding light to her parents, and we wanted to honor her with a name that would reflect that. 

"The name 'Laren' is given in honor of my mother, Lauren Grissom, who died in 1998. We had originally not planned on naming our child for anyone else, but the more we discussed it, the more strongly we felt that this little one needed to be able to give meaning to a woman who cannot be with her in body. So, Mom," he concluded, eyes half closed as he tried to hide the sheen in them, "we hope you approve of your granddaughter, and we promise that she will grow up knowing that you would have loved her.

"Now," he finished, stepping back, "we'd like to ask Galina's godmother, Catherine Willows, to read a verse that embodies what we hope our daughter's life to be."

Catherine stepped forward, smiling proudly and meeting the shining eyes of her daughter, who watched from beside Warrick. "Um ,hi," she said quietly, momentarily nervous as she thought of her responsibility. "I'm going to read a short poem, like Grissom said. So . . ." She raised the piece of paper she held and began to read.

"If a child lives with criticism  
he learns to condemn.  
If a child lives with hostility  
he learns to fight.  
If a child lives with ridicule  
he learns to be shy.  
If a child lives with shame  
he learns to feel guilt.

BUT,

If a child lives with tolerance  
he learns to be patient.  
If a child lives with encouragement  
he learns confidence.  
If a child lives with fairness  
he learns justice.  
If a child lives with security  
he learns to have faith.  
If a child lives with approval  
he learns to like himself.  
If a child lives with acceptance and friendship  
he learns to find love in the world."

            She smiled slightly as she finished reading, then walked further forward to stand beside Sara. Reaching out to squeeze her friend's hand, she whispered, "Thank you, Sara. I love her already."

            The woman in the suit stepped forward again and spoke. "Now Sara will repeat the promises she and Gil wish to make to their daughter."

            Sara took a deep breath, then took Galina from Grissom's arms and looked down into the tiny face. "Galina, we promise you that with us, you will always find a warm home and warm hearts. We will always love you, even when you misbehave and play with Grissom's spiders after being forbidden." The group laughed at this, as Sara had intended, and her voice became a little stronger. "We promise to support you throughout your life, no matter what, and we promise to protect you with our last breaths. And," she added with a small smile, "whether you want it or not, you're guaranteed a life of learning and investigating because of who your parents are."

Gentle applause greeted these promises and Sara grinned widely, then stepped back to Grissom, who put an arm around her. Carefully handing Galina to Catherine, Sara watched as the blonde stepped toward the table again to meet Warrick, who was approaching it from the other side, and spoke.

"Warrick and I, as your godparents," she said lovingly, "would like to promise you our strength and support throughout your life. We will take care of you and guide you should you need us. We promise that when your daddy brings home one too many decaying-blood experiments or your mommy decides to pull a triple-shift, you can stay, day or night, with one of us."

Catherine walked around the table to Warrick, who couldn't hide the pride on his face. "To symbolize our promises, Galya," Warrick said, "we give you this locket. Inside is a picture of Catherine and I on one side, and a picture of you the day you were born on the other." He held up a silver necklace that looked as long as the baby was and fastened it around her neck carefully. "It may be a little big for you now, but like the baby clothes your parents have set aside, you'll grow into it."

Warrick and Catherine took their places next to Grissom and Sara again, and Grissom took the baby while the woman in the suit spoke. "Welcome to this circle of love, Galina Laren. May all of life's pleasures and blessings stay with you as you grow, guided by those who have celebrated with you today." Standing back as Grissom and Sara stepped forward, she smiled. "Now we present to you: Galina Laren Grissom!"

Applause and a few wolf whistles greeted this pronouncement as the audience moved forward as one to extend their congratulations to the child and her parents. 

**A/N: **The ceremony you just read is called a Naming Ceremony. It is a non-religious alternative to a christening/baptism, and based on what we know about Grissom and Sara, I decided that it was the ceremony they would be most likely to have.

**Another A/N: **Before I get fifteen million comments correcting me on it, no one is sure whether Grissom's mother is alive or not. I chose to believe, back in chapter 30-something, that she was dead, and so she'd dead in this story. I can't exactly go back and change references to her in 121 "published" chapters now, even if I wanted to – it would get very confusing. So give me a break and do that whole suspense of disbelief thing while you read J


	123. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay guys…I've spent the past week freaking out over taking the GREs and completely incapable of coherent thought or writing. I took the test today and can (almost) think again, so here I am writing again!

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"Guys," Sara whined, laying her cheek on a palm, "is this really necessary? It's not the next Royal Wedding or something!" With her free hand she picked up the wedding magazine Catherine was currently cooing over and held it as far away as she could. "I am _not_ spending, like, ten thousand bucks for a dress. I can get a white dress in Macy's for between one and two _hundred_."

            Susan and Catherine exchanged looks, then Catherine put a motherly arm around Sara. "Listen, hon, this is your _wedding_. You don't want to go down the aisle wearing some polyester thing that's going to fray before you even leave the reception." She grabbed the magazine back and flipped to the page she had been examining before Sara had spoken up. "Now, as I was saying, this dress looks like you. Not too girly, but classy and beautiful."

            "Aw, gee, Cath. You think I'm classy?" Sara asked mockingly, fluttering her eyelashes outrageously. "Classy is as classy does, not as classy dresses." She cast a pleading look at Susan. "Come on Sue, back me up on this!"

            "I dunno, Sara. I agree with Catherine, that dress is completely you. I can just picture how good you'd look in it! But it's your wedding," Susan added with a wistful sigh, "and we have to respect your desire to not spend the baby's college fund on a wedding dress."

            "Exactly! That is exactly my point." She directed a glare at Catherine, who was studiously ignoring her, and elbowed the blonde in the ribs. "Hear that? Sue agrees with me."

            "I didn't say I _agreed_ with . . ."

            "Ahem! As I was saying, Susan agrees with me. You're in the minority, Cath, and this is my wedding, not yours." A yawn split her face and she tried to fight it back. "Come on, can we ditch this whole wedding fever thing? This is me and Grissom, we're not having a big fancy shindig, and there's no need for you guys to be spending so much time and energy on a little backyard wedding."

            "I'll 'ditch the whole wedding fever thing'," Catherine offered, "_if_ you'll at least let me go dress shopping with you at Macy's so you can get a cheaper dress that's _also_ high-quality."

            Sara sighed and gave Catherine a half-smile. "Fine, deal. You know, all the money that could've gone toward an expensive dress is currently either on my finger or around the dog's neck, anyway. Someone's got to convince Grissom to quit the spending spree, and he doesn't listen to me." The smile morphed into a very pointed look. "_Someone_."

            "He doesn't listen to me any more than he listens to you, you dork," Catherine shot back with a laugh. "You're the one who has the whole 'sexual hold over him' thing going on."

            "Yeah, well, he won't listen to me about it 'cause he thinks I'm just being modest or something. He's not getting the whole point of he doesn't need to woo me anymore."

            Susan shook her head firmly and put a hand on Sara's arm to stop her speaking. "Uh-uh. Don't go that far – don't ever tell him he needs to stop wooing you. That's _so_ not supportive of a good marriage. You two should spend the next fifty years wooing each other constantly."

            "Ok, fine. Then he's not getting the point that he doesn't need to spend major money on wooing me, how's that?"

            "Better."

            "Good. So Cath, I hereby elect you to do the talking and convince him."

            "Sar-aaa!" Catherine ran a hand through her hair. "I just told you, he's not going to listen to me. Have Warrick talk to him or something."

            "Hmm, Warrick . . . not a bad idea. They can do a whole man-to-man thing. Yeah, when you go home tonight tell Warrick he's been elected."

            Catherine cocked an eyebrow. "And what would make you think that I'd have any way to communicate with him when I go home tonight?"

"One," Sara enumerated, holding up her index finger, "you have a phone. Two, you guys are always closeted together at work and I'm sure you know where he lives. Three," she finished with a cocky grin, "I'm pretty sure that he'll be over your house sometime today to, uh 'fix things' or something."

"Brat!"

"Secret-keeper!"

"Time out," Susan called, making a referee's 'T' with her hands and trying to hold back her mirth. "No fair name-calling, kiddies. Can we get back to the subject at hand?"

Sara blinked. "What was the subject at hand?"

"Ummm . . . Warrick talking to Grissom."

"Ohh, right. Well, Warrick gets to talk to Grissom. There, discussion finished!"

"Speaking of which," Catherine asked, "when's Grissom supposed to get home?"

A smirk crossed Sara's face. "Well, they're _supposed_ to be having a daddy-daughter day, meaning he was going to be out until almost dinner time . . . but he gets freaked out about giving her the bottle. I think it skeeves him to know where the milk came from. So I'd say that he's gonna be home in about . . . oh, half an hour or so, max, when she starts fussing for her lunch."

"Man," Catherine said with a shake of her head, "you've really got to whip him into shape and get him doing some of the work. You're exhausted as it is, and you're still only working half-shifts."

"He _does_ help," Sara replied indignantly. "Just because he can't feed her doesn't mean he doesn't take care of her as much as I do. Half the time he gets up with me when I feed her during the day, just so I don't whine at him."

"Mmhm," Susan said, jumping in. "So why are you the one with the black circles under your eyes and not him?"

"I'm still recovering from having a seven-pound baby, thanks very much, and he isn't!"

"Hey, we're not insulting Grissom," Catherine said quickly. "We know he's not a deadbeat dad or something. We're just pointing out that it's been two months, and you can't really use the 'I just had a baby' excuse anymore. You need to start resting more, Sara. Let Grissom learn to bottle-feed her. I don't know why it skeeves him, anyway, it's not like he hasn't been touched the . . . um . . . er, never mind," she said lamely, noticing the bright red flush that had appeared on Sara's face.

She was saved from Sara's wrath when the front door popped open, revealing Grissom, who was wearing a brightly-colored baby sling, muttering to the baby, who was yowling back, probably asking for lunch.

He looked up, finally noticing the convention of females in his living room, and a comical look of embarrassment fell over his face. "Uh . . . hi, ladies."


	124. Give 'em something to talk about

"Hi!" the three women chorused as Sara stood up and took the baby from Grissom. "You're home early," Sara said, giving him a wry look that told him she knew exactly why he was so early. "Anything wrong?"

"Nope, nothing wrong . . . I just thought you might want to see us," he said, attempting to sound normal. "And she's a little hungry, and since we were on our way home anyway . . ."

". . . you didn't bother with the bottle," Sara finished for him. "Now, why did I suspect that before you even said it?" Looking over her shoulder at Catherine and Susan, she added, " 'Scuse us for a little while, gotta feed the baby. Grissom," she said, looking back to him, "entertain them while I'm gone."

"Enterta . . ." He gulped and looked nervously at the mass of X-chromosomes still sitting on the couch. Sara only wiggled her eyebrows and left the room when he shot her a desperate look, so he sighed and tried his best. "So, what did you three spend the afternoon doing?"

Catherine grinned, noticing his discomfort. "Well, first we discussed periods, then we talked about how men just don't understand us, then Sara wanted to talk about what shade of pink we thought she should look for when she shops."

"She _what_?"

The two women looked at each other and burst out laughing. "Oh god," Susan gasped, "I can't believe he bought that! Pink!" She slapped her knee and leaned forward, still roaring with laughter. 

"Oh man, Gil, you're so damn gullible," Catherine teased, managing to hold back her own giggles slightly better than Susan had. "You don't really think Sara would ever be caught dead wearing pink, do you? Please tell me you don't."

"Fine," he said, scratching the side of his chin nervously, "I don't think that." When he saw the skeptical looks they gave him he added, "No, I really don't. You just said it so seriously, Cath . . . Aw, forget it."

Susan grinned. "Sorry, Gil, we just couldn't resist. Actually, Catherine and I spent most of the time flipping through bridal magazines and trying to convince Sara to look at them. With no success, I might add. She's determined to buy her wedding dress off the rack at Macy's."

"Um . . . isn't Macy's, like, a department store? Where you can buy soap dishes and Martha Stewart brand clothes?" Grissom wasn't exactly up on fashion trends, but he was sure he'd been in a Macy's before and it had definitely not sold nice wedding gowns.

Catherine snickered. "Close enough – though Martha's in K-Mart, not Macy's. But yeah, you've got the right idea. It's definitely not a bridal shop or anything. But she promised I could go shopping with her, so I'll make sure it's not _too_ terrible a dress."

"Thanks, Cath, for that vote of confidence," Sara said from the hallway. "I leave the room for ten minutes and, why, Catherine," she intoned in a breathy voice, "suddenly Grissom _does_ listen to you!" She made a sour face at her friends, then walked back to the couch, followed by Newton, who had for once abandoned her self-appointed task of guarding the baby.

Grissom looked confused and Susan looked cornered, but Catherine just laughed. "This isn't exactly the topic we discussed earlier, Sara. Trust me, he still won't listen about that."

"Do you _mind_?" Grissom asked peevishly. " 'He' is still in the room and able to hear everything you're saying." He turned to Sara. "Now, what did you three cook up that involves me?"

"Nothing, Gris," Sara said innocently. "We just talked about who you listen to and who you don't." She slid her eyes to the side to give her companions a "was that a good cover?" look and was relieved to receive two small nods in response.

"You're lying, Sidle," he said matter-of-factly. "But as long as this isn't a prank or something, I'll let you three get away with it."

"Gee, thanks," Sara said. "Oh, by the way . . . Catherine said that Warrick wants to talk to you about something _important_."

"Is anything wrong?" Grissom asked, turning to Catherine. 

"Nah. I don't know what it's about but I think if it were an emergency he would've beeped you."

"Okay," Grissom responded in a slightly suspicious tone. "Does he want me to call him?"

"Uh, no. No, don't call him. Why don't you just come over my house for a little while before work starts, he'll be there to, uh, have dinner."

As she had hoped, this statement drew his attention away from his suspicions regarding himself and focused it on his suspicions about Catherine and Warrick. "Dinner, oh really? And how often does this . . . 'dinner' . . . happen at your house?" He grinned deviously. "Hey Sara, I think we should invite ourselves over Catherine's house for, ahem, _dinner_ one night soon."

"Oh come on, Gil," Sara said with an answering smile. "We wouldn't want to invade their, uh, _privacy_ like that. I'm sure they like to 'eat dinner' alone," she added, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers. "Right Cath?"

No response from the blonde, who was glowering at both of them from her seat across the room. After a moment, Susan stepped in to break the silence. "Okayyy, then. I think it's time for us to head out, Catherine. What do you say?"

"Yeah," Catherine said shortly. "Time to go." She gave Sara a dirty look, earning herself another grin from the taller woman, then turned to Grissom. "Dinner. Tonight. Be there." Her tone brooked no questions; Grissom was now expected to be there and would suffer if he didn't show.

Without another word, she turned and swept out of the front door, followed by a more apologetic Susan. "Uh, talk to you tomorrow, Sara?"

"Yep, I'll give you a call, Sue. Now, you better get out there before Cath comes back and drags you out." She waved as Susan nodded and jogged out the door.

When they were alone again, Grissom turned to Sara. "Spill it, Sidle. What's going on?"

Sara shrugged. "Nothing, Gris, really. Now . . . what are you going to wear to . . . _dinner_?"


	125. I'd rather die standing than live on my ...

"So?" Sara asked eagerly as she followed in Catherine's wake through the aisles of Macy's. "What did he say? Did it work?"

Catherine stopped short and turned around to face her friend. "You mean he didn't tell you?"

Sara pulled herself up just short of crashing into the other woman. "Uh-uh. He looked . . . abashed, maybe, when he came home, wouldn't say a word about what Warrick said or his response." Impatient, she gave Catherine's shoulder a gentle push. "Move it, blondie. You've gotta learn to walk and talk at the same time."

Catherine harrumphed, but began walking again, this time slowly enough to let Sara catch up. "Before I answer that, you have to answer this: did he pick that getup, or did you?"

Sara laughed. "He did, of course! For some mysterious reason he got pissed when I told him he has zero fashion sense and that he should let me dress him." She shrugged. "I warned him you'd laugh, but he's male, and I guess they're incapable of taking good advice. Though Warrick and Nick don't seem to have much trouble obeying you and me . . ."

"But Sara . . . jeans with a flannel lumberjack shirt? He's really that clueless?"

"More," Sara answered with a firm nod. "You should see his closet. I've been after him for months."

Catherine shook her head incredulously. "He shoulda stuck with the baggy pants and . . . oops, here we are." They'd just reached the "dress" section of the store, and she wasn't encouraged by what she saw.

Echoing Catherine's thoughts, Sara groaned. "Damn, I forgot it's prom season." She picked up something that resembled a dress and turned with a smirk. "You think this is classy enough? You know, the top may end six inches above my waist, but it has _sequins_."

Both women burst out laughing, garnering a nasty look from a saleswoman who happened to be passing by. "Can I help you . . . ladies?" The woman's snobbish voice matched her smart attire.

Before Sara could speak, Catherine said, "Why yes, yes you can. My friend here is looking for a wedding gown – something that's not made for fifteen-year-olds."

The saleswoman's attitude did a sharp about-face as she realized that she was speaking to the people who might provide her biggest commission of the day. "Well why didn't you _say_ so?" she asked in a saccharine voice.

"I thought I just did," Catherine pointed out wryly, refusing to be intimidated. "What do you have?"

"Well, we're standing in the "formal" section right now, so for the most part what you see is what you get – but if you know where to look, you can 'see' a lot better." She curled her finger toward her, ordering them to follow her as she plowed past racks of pastel gowns and heavily beaded mother-of-the-bride dresses. 

"Now," the woman said after a few minutes, gesturing toward a nearby rack, "here we have a white dress that would look just _fabulous_ on you." Without waiting for their approval, she placed her hands on Sara's waist, causing the brunette to jump, then smoothly said, "Ah, you're a . . . six?"

Sara raised her eyebrows imploringly at her companion, but to no avail. "Yeah," she muttered eventually. "But my chest is more like a 12, just lately."

"Ah, you're one of those."

Sara didn't care to find out what "those" were. Taking a step back from the prodding hands, she looked at her watch, then at Catherine. "Oh, darn, Cath . . . we have to go do that _thing_."

Catherine blinked, then picked up smoothly when she realized what Sara was doing. "Oh! Yeah, that thing . . . forgot all about that." She patted the saleswoman's shoulder. "Sorry, miss, but we've got to go do something important. Bye!" Grabbing Sara's hand, she tugged her friend along, both women fighting their laughter until they reached the entrance of the store.

"Oh god," Sara managed between giggles, "are they all like that? Because if they are, I'm getting married in jeans."

"Most of them have a little more tact than that, thankfully. At least you didn't punch her when she touched you."

Sara couldn't help but grin. "I was this close," she said, holding her thumb and index finger millimeters apart. "Where to now?"

Just as Catherine opened her mouth to speak, Sara corrected herself. "Actually, just lead me. I don't care where we're going as long as it doesn't involve scary clerks or wedding dresses that cost half a year's salary. Meantime, tell me what went on with Grissom."

Catherine paused to assess their position and decide upon the next destination, then started walking. "Ok, well, his outfit was scary, we already established that. So he came over, did the whole 'raised-eyebrows and looking-over-his-glasses' thing at me and Warrick, then asked what Warrick wanted - in a really comical, apprehensive voice.

"At this point, I made myself scarce, so this is all second-hand from War, but here's the conversation he says they had." Catherine turned around so she was walking backwards, facing Sara, and began mimicking a conversation with her hands. "Left hand, Warrick, right hand, Grissom," she noted, by way of setting the scene up, then launched into it.

Left hand: "So I hear you guys're getting down to the wire for the wedding."

Right hand: "Not really, Warrick; it's still a month away."

Left hand: "Cool, then. So I guess you're wondering why you're here?"

Right hand: "The thought had crossed my mind, yes. Is something wrong?"

Left hand: "Not really. Well, kinda, but not the way you're thinking. We . . . I mean I . . . just wanted to talk to you about some of your home stuff."

Right hand, accompanied by a Grissom-like scowl on Catherine's face: "My 'home stuff'? What do you mean?"

Left hand, as Catherine's face cleared into a phony look of innocence: "Your, uh, well . . . your spending habits."

Right hand: "Ex_cuse_ me?"

Left hand, with a sigh on Catherine's part: "Your spending habits. A few of us are worried that you're overspending to try to make Sara happy, or something like that."

Right hand: "I have savings, Warrick. I won't go to the poorhouse."

Left hand: "Maybe not, but you don't need to be spending thousands of dollars to please her. You do realize that, right?"

Right hand, scowling and in a testy tone of voice: "Yes, Warrick, I realize that. But it's my money and I like spending it on her, and I see no reason not to."

Left hand: "It's making her uncomfortable, you know. She doesn't like it. According to Catherine, she refuses to splurge on a wedding dress because, and I quote, 'All the money that could've gone to an expensive dress is currently either on my finger or around the dog's neck.' She knows you have enough savings – for now – but she won't buy anything for herself, to try to balance things out."

Right hand, breathlessly: "You're lying." Pause. "Or at least you're stretching the truth. She hasn't said anything to me."

Left hand: "Are you sure about that? Or did you just not listen when she did say it?"

Right hand, exasperatedly: "Fine. Assuming this is true, what do you want me to do about it?"

Left hand: "Hey, she's _your_ fiancée. I'm just offering some friendly advice: let her spoil herself, if she wants to be spoiled. Sara's not the type to want to be showered with gifts."

Catherine let her arms fall back to her sides and sighed. "Then Grissom just kinda got quiet and hardly said another word while we all ate."

Sara was still waiting for an ending to the story. "So . . . did it work, or not?"

Catherine shrugged. "You tell me. Ask him about it tonight, see what he says. Try telling him almost exactly what Warrick told him. Maybe when he hears it from both of you in quick succession, it'll penetrate his thick skull."

"I'm not against buying an expensive dress because of that. Really."

 "Sure you're not, hon," Catherine said, patting her hand. "You just keep telling yourself that. Honestly, the two of you are perfect for each other, you've both mastered the art of denial."

"Can we just go buy a damn dress, Cath?"

"Nope. I'm calling off the search until after you talk to him. Let me know when you guys've resolved that issue, then we'll talk about more dress shopping."


	126. Where the green grass grows

Grissom yawned and turned over, sliding an arm under Sara's shoulders. "Man, this parenting business is way too tiring. And I'm not even the one doing the hard part – you must be exhausted, honey."

"I deal with it," Sara said with as much of a shrug as she could muster, considering her prone position. "I'm used to being tired, remember?" After a moment's thought, she pulled her gaze from the ceiling and directed it at Grissom's face. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Ok, then . . . what happened at Catherine's the other day? What did Warrick have to say?" Okay, so maybe she was taking Catherine's advice for once, she thought, but she was tailoring the questions so that she could drag out of him exactly what _she_ wanted to know.

Grissom's arm flexed under her head as she spoke, a sure sign that he wasn't too pleased with having to talk about this. "We had dinner, Sara. You knew that."

"Bite me," she said, giving him a threatening look. "What _else_ happened? I want details, and I want to know what the problem is or was."

He heaved a sigh. "Fine. Warrick told me I spend too much money."

Now was the time for the fake-innocence act. "You 'spend too much money'? Excuse me? We're not struggling at all. What was he talking about?"

"He, uh, well, more specifically, he thinks I spend too much money on you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. He said . . . Sara, do you really need to know all this? I'm perfectly capable of resolving this on my own." Before he had even finished speaking, Sara's pajama-clad form was on top of him.

"Listen, buddy," she said, inches away and speaking directly into his face. "This involves me, apparently, and you're going to tell me all of it or I'm going to do you some serious damage. Got it?" She rested her elbows casually on either side of his collarbone and subtly dug them in.

Grissom knew when to admit defeat. "Yeah, I got it." He pressed his lips together, trying to formulate a way to relate the story that would keep Sara off his back at the same time that she literally got off his front. "He thinks I spend too much money buying things for you. And that I don't need to, because you don't want them."

"Well," Sara began, only to be cut off.

"Hold on, I'm not done. He said that you don't want them and that you don't like me buying them for you. And he said that you won't buy anything for yourself because I buy things for you." 

He looked pained at this, and Sara felt a pang of sympathy. "Well . . . I have mentioned things like that to you before, you know. You just never really paid attention. It's not that I don't want you buying anything for me, Gris. It's just that . . . if you want to buy something for me, buy me some flowers, or make me up a batch of Red Creeper, or something. It doesn't have to cost thousands of dollars."

Grissom said nothing for a long minute. Then, in a soft voice, he asked, "Is it true that you won't buy a nice dress because of the money I've spent on you?"

"You've been talking to Catherine, too, haven't you?" Sara shook her head. "That's not it. I just . . . I just don't see the reasoning behind spending enough money to feed a Third World nation on a white dress that I'll wear for one day out of my whole life."

"I don't think I completely believe you, Sara. I think that's part of it . . . but I think there's more that you don't want to tell me about." A deep breath. "Listen, if you don't want me to . . . waste . . . any more money on things you don't want or need, or if you want me to save my money for a rainy day, or anything like that . . . tell me now. I want the truth."

No longer able to pretend this was a casual conversation, Sara sat up and regarded him closely. "Okay, Gil. I would like you to stop spending your money to lavish things on me. Not because I don't appreciate it, and not because I don't think the ring is beautiful and Newton is the best dog ever, but because you don't _need_ to do things like that. You don't need to win me anymore; you've got me." She paused to give him an ironic smile. "But don't go getting the idea that you can stop treating me as good as you do. 'Cause if you stop changing diapers, you're outta here," she finished, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the door.

"I'm trying to follow you here, but I need a little more detail. Dumb it down for the estrogen-challenged crowd, huh?"

She couldn't resist leaning over to give him a big kiss for that comment. " 'Estrogen-challenged' . . . I like it. Ok, so here's the male-friendly version, just for you: only buy me things if you honest-to-god want to buy them and think they're perfect for me. And, before you jump through the loophole I just provided, how about consulting me before spending more than $100 on me at a time?"

"Why a hundred?" he asked curiously.

"You got a better idea?"

"Umm . . . well, when you put it like that. So let me see if I've got this. I'm not to go out and buy any more dogs, rings, or gold collars without checking with you first. I am, however, to treat you, in all other ways, exactly as I have been treating you."

Sara eyed him worriedly. Had that been sarcasm? Was he annoyed at her request or something, or had he really been repeating back what he understood from her? "Was that a serious comment, Gris? Or are you making fun of me?"

"Hey, when was the last time I made fun of you?" he asked indignantly. Sara snorted, and he grimaced. "_Seriously_ made fun of you, I mean. I was serious, I swear. I just want to make sure I know what you want me to do."

"Oh. Ok, then."

Grissom smiled weakly. "Can I ask _you_ a question now? And will you answer it honestly – and I mean COMPLETELY honestly?"

Sara didn't answer, just tilted her head to the side and gave him a look that plainly said that he shouldn't think he even needed to ask. Taking this as a yes, he continued. "Do you really not want to splurge on a dress? Or do you just _think_ you shouldn't want to?"

Sara's eyes scanned the room, from the open hallway door, to the cobweb in the left corner of the ceiling, to the baby's crib against the wall. She wasn't avoiding the question, really; it was just that she wasn't really sure of her answer. 

"Do I want to splurge on a dress . . ." she mused out loud. "I, um . . . well, I really don't think my opinion comes down to how much it costs. What I really want is to find the perfect dress without looking at any price tags, and then, when I find out how much it costs, decide if it's worth it to me."

"Well," Grissom said steadily, "why wouldn't you be able to do that?"

A self-deprecating smile covered her face. "Because it would ruin my image, Gris. Come on, Sara Sidle in raptures over white gowns, willing to spend whatever it takes to look her best?"

"Bull, sweetheart," he retorted mildly. "Everyone who knows you just wants you to do what'll make you happy. If it's a few grand on a dress you'll only wear once that makes you happy, well, everyone knows that you're not a clotheshorse, Sara. We're all pretty sure you're not going to squander your money or mine on makeup and high heels; I don't think any of us would look down on you in the slightest for wanting to look beautiful on your wedding day."

Sara smile loosened into one that actually represented happiness. "Of course, you meant to add, 'even more beautiful _than you already are_,' to that, right Gris?" He stumbled over an answer and she laughed. "I'm kidding. So I guess the verdict is . . . I'll let Cath take me wherever she wants to look for a dress, and who knows – maybe my favorite _will _ be the ninety-buck one at Macy's. Or maybe it'll be the Vera Wang everyone seems to want to see me in."

"Hey, don't look at me. I'd rather see you in nothing." With a chuckle, Grissom handily ducked the pillow that came flying at him.


	127. I keep looking

Grissom, one elbow still resting on the breakfast bar as he turned toward the door, grinned at the two women standing in front of him. "You promised, Sara. Go on."

"You know I hate you, right?" Sara countered. "Just want to be sure about that."

He smirked. "Yes dear, you hate me, I've got it all written down." Then, switching to his usual, more serious tone, he asked, "Are you sure you don't want me to take Galya? I can only imagine how much of a pain it'll be to dress shop while wearing a baby."

"No, it's ok. It's quality mother-daughter time, even if she'll never remember it. Besides, if she stays with you she probably won't get fed all day."

Before Grissom could protest this exaggeration, Catherine threw in her opinion. "And the most important reason: her godmom demands it. I don't get my fair share of her; you two are hoarding the baby." Turning back to Sara, she said, "Now c'mon, Sara. We've got to get there early or there's no point in going 'cause everything will be picked over."

Hiking the baby sling higher up on her chest, Sara groaned. "We're not going to be fighting throngs of eager dress-buyers, Cath. Today is no different from any other shopping day of the year."

With a grin, Catherine snagged Sara's ear in a motherlike gesture and, tugging on it gently, ordered, "Don't you smart me, young lady. Out, out." Throwing one last smile over her shoulder at Grissom, who was giving them a bemused look, she led a giggling Sara out of the house.

"Got the seat set up?" Sara asked, peering into the back window of Catherine's car.

"Of course! You know, I wish I knew why they didn't invent these baby seat anchors when Lindsey was born. I had to _struggle_ to get my car seat attached right, and you young'uns just have to snap two pieces together."

Sara just snorted and shook her head, opening the door to settle Galina into the seat. "So are we really going to some fancy shop first? Why not look at the cheaper places before the more expensive places?"

"It's all part of my diabolical plot to get you in a dress that's actually beautiful, Sara. Beware the scheming blonde," she said in a breathy voice, wiggling her fingers in Sara's direction as though she were casting a spell.

A mocking "feh," was all Sara had to say to that. "So, what dress figures into said diabolical plot, and how much should I expect you to want me to shell out?"

"Sara, I didn't say that I was . . ."

Sara cocked an eyebrow. "Answer the question, Cath."

"Well, I don't exactly have a price range in mind, but I'm determined to see you in a Vera Wang. You'd just look so beautiful, Sara; you don't need anything frilly or flouncy, and the simplicity of her dresses is what makes them so beautiful."

"Uh-huh. Sounds like someone put some thought into this."

"Oh, bite me. You said you wanted to find 'the perfect dress,' and we're going to find it or die trying. So just sit back and enjoy the ride, kid."

Sara sighed deeply, but obeyed Catherine's order, watching the landscape for the rest of the 30-minute drive to Rosie's Bridal. "Oh man," she said, eyeing the assortment of gowns in the store's window. "We're never going to find something in only one day."

"Relax, Sara. You're working with an expert, remember?"

"Why should you be an expert, anyway," Sara whined. "You've only gotten married once, same as I'm gonna."

Catherine held open the store's door for Sara, who was still trying to settle the baby into the sling. They were immediately greeted by a saleswoman wearing a measuring tape around her neck, and Sara involuntarily flinched away from her.

"Relax, Sara. Trust me, they're better at this than that evil clerk at Macy's," Catherine muttered out of the side of her mouth, then turned to the woman and smiled. "Hi there."

"Hello!" the woman, whose nametag said, "Geena," replied brightly. "Can I help you guys today?"

Having finally managed to get the wiggling baby settled in, Sara looked up and nodded. "Yeah. I need to find a wedding dress." She held back a smile as Catherine, standing off to the side, nodded approvingly.

"Great!" Geena chirped. "Do you have any style or designer in mind?"

Sara held up a "wait a second" finger to the clerk and turned to Catherine. "Here, can you take the baby? I have a feeling I'm going to be poked, prodded, and undressed." 

The trade was made, and she returned her attention to the saleswoman. "Sorry 'bout that. Ok, styles, styles . . hmm. Well I don't really have anything _specific_, but I don't really like frilly things. You know, not a lot of lace and bows."

"Fair enough. Let me get you started looking through some style books, then we can narrow the search down a little more." With a wave of her hand, she led the two women to a comfortable sitting area in the back of the store and handed Sara a book that reminded her of the hairstyle books she'd seen in salons.

"So I'm just supposed to pick what I want out of here?"

"No!" Catherine and Geena said at the same time. "No ma'am," Geena continued, "these books are just so you can see the different styles. See in places like this, we categorize wedding dresses based on a few main characteristics. Neckline is a big one – square neck, strapless, spaghetti strap, and so forth," she explained, pointing out an example from the book for each variety, "and so is skirt cut, which has varieties like A-line, princess cut, and sheath." She continued pointing to examples. "On top of those two styles, then, we can layer things like your 'no frills' request and the length of the train.

"Then when we've narrowed things down, say to a spaghetti strap dress with a princess skirt and no heavy lace and a chapel train, that's when I can start to bring out the dresses that fit your criteria. Does that make sense?"

"Gotcha," Sara nodded. "So, what do you think, Cath?"

"I think 'no frills' is a good plan. I also think you could pull off a strapless with absolutely no effort. Personally, I don't think you'd be comfortable in a slim skirt, but then, I can't really picture you in a puffy one either. And trust me, you're not going to deal with a huge train."

Sara grimaced. "Yeah, you're right about that. If I had a big train I'd just spend all my time tripping over it." She cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I think basically I want a simple style. No poofy skirt, like Catherine said, but strapless . . . I don't know. I'd be afraid it would fall off."

"Ah, Sara, give it a try," Catherine cajoled. "If it fits right, it won't fall off, and I'm telling you, you'd look so fantastic in one."

Hmm. Well, she supposed she'd check out the option. After all, if Cath said it would look good, it probably would. "Ok, ok. You win, Cat." She turned to Geena and smiled. "Ok, so I guess . . . not a princess skirt, and not a long train . . .and let's give strapless a try, but no promises – if I fend a better one with straps, I'll go with that one."

"Sounds good," said the saleswoman. "Let's get you set up in a dressing room."


	128. Perfect isn't easy, but it's me

"No way," Sara said with a violent shake of her head. "There's no way in hell I'm wearing something that makes me look like a ballerina." She fingered the netting that overlaid the dress's skirt and shook her head again. "Uh-uh."

"Hey, calm down," Catherine said, rolling her eyes. "We're not gonna tie you into it and force you to buy it. You don't like it, out it goes and we move on to the next one. Not a problem." Pulling aside the curtain that separated herself and Sara from the rest of the store, she stuck her head out and asked for the next dress possibility.

The smiling saleswoman handed Catherine yet another white dress, this one very simple: a strapless white sheath with false buttons up the back. Between Catherine and Sara, they managed to get her into it and zipped up.

Sara turned around to face the mirror and wrinkled her nose. "Feels like it's gonna fall off," she remarked crankily, tugging at the bodice, which did indeed seem to be threatening full exposure.

"Maybe you need some falsies," Catherine suggested with a smirk.

"Hardy har har, Cath. No fair making fun of the chick with the small boobs just because you ended up with bigger ones. Besides, mine aren't exactly at low ebb right now anyway." Sara tugged again at the dress, then took a step forward and nearly pitched into the wall. Putting out a hand to stop herself, she yelped, "Ouch!" as her wrist bent just a little too much when it made contact with the wall. Once she had recovered her balance, she shook the offending appendage, trying to clear out the ache. "No way am I wearing a dress that I can't walk in even _without _high heels. This thing feels like I've been wrapped in duct tape; could the skirt get any tighter?"

"Trust me, Sara – it could get a lot tighter. You're talking to an ex-stripper of the spandex generation; I speak from experience. So let's get you out of this one . . ." she said, tugging on the zipper, which didn't seem to want to move.

It took a few minutes of effort, but they managed to peel the dress off Sara, who took a deep breath and let out with an immensely satisfied look on her face. "Note to self: do not buy wedding dress that's so fitted around the middle that you can't breathe. Passing out while walking down the aisle, though fitting considering our job, is not recommended in this case."

A light screech from the vicinity of Catherine's chest broke Sara's humorous tirade. With a grimace, Catherine motioned Sara back to the velvet-covered bench at the back of their area and said, "She wants you. She's been gumming my shirt for the past five minutes, and I think she just figured out that she can't get what she wants from me."

"Good," Sara sighed. "I needed a break anyway." She dug a small blanket out of the diaper bag and settled Galina down for lunch, then sighed again. "You didn't tell me dress shopping was this hard. I'm ready to stretch out in here and take a nap!"

"I never said it would be easy, either, Sara. You want to take a break, get some lunch for ourselves, then come back here and continue?"

"No. If I leave this store without finding a dress, you won't be able to get me back in with a crowbar. Let's just finish this."

It was Catherine's turn to sigh. "You know, we're shopping for your wedding dress. This isn't a torturous practice on level with bamboo shoots or water torture. You ought to at least try to enjoy it, seeing as how the dress is supposed to make you happy."

Sara didn't deign to answer that comment, instead leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. Maybe she could catch a few minutes of shut-eye while the baby nursed.

Sara was still so young, Catherine mused as she looked at the pale face and dark hair. She felt like she should be teaching the younger woman, but right now she was more worried about Sara just making it to her wedding day without killing someone – herself included. She'd always been adamant about not allowing time to just laze around, and she still was, despite the added stress in her life.

Maybe she'd settle down after the wedding. If not . . . well, nowadays Grissom was the one stuck with restraining her anyway, he could just do it one more time. "Hey Sara?"

"Mmph."

"The sucking noises stopped, so I think she's done eating. Come on and hand her over; I'll burp her while you get the next dress ready."

Sara grumbled loudly, but did as ordered. Eyeing the next dress in the queue, she raised her eyebrows. "You know, this one actually doesn't look too terrible." The dress was cut simply, as she had requested, but the skirt was roomy – maybe even a little voluminous – rather than skintight. She held it up to her front and looked at Catherine. "What do you think?"

"Works for me," Catherine replied, then grinned when the baby let out a burp. "Good girl. To both of you, actually," she grinned, and set the baby back into the carrier she still wore. Finishing that, she looked up again and eyed the dress Sara was holding up. "I _like_ it! Turn it around, lemme see the back."

Sara did so, revealing the two wide, crisscrossing streamers that formed a platinum-colored train about three feet long. "Wow," she said with a smile, "I definitely like the back, how about you?"

Catherine nodded, then twirled her finger. "Let me see the front again; were those beads or sequins?"

"Neither," Sara said in surprise as she scrutinized the bodice. "It looks like it's painted. They even gave it depth."

"Wow. Let's get you into it and see if it looks as good on you as it does on the hanger." She carefully unlaced it and let Sara step in, then laced her back up. "Face me."

Sara turned.

Catherine drew in a sharp breath. "I think we just found it, Sara. You look absolutely beautiful."

Sara fingered the material of the skirt nervously. "You think? I know I don't look good in white 'cause it makes me look even paler than I am, and . . ."

"Shush, Sara. Would I lie to you about this? It's gorgeous. Look in the mirror."

She did. What she saw made her draw in a breath as sharp as Catherine's. She was looking at a tall, slender woman whose figure was accented by the cut of the dress's narrow waistline and its elegant skirt. A delicate design of hand-painted ribbons and beads danced over the strapless bodice of the dress, flowing into a low, dipping waistline that met a flared skirt, which fell to the floor in gentle waves.

She turned away from the mirror and craned her neck to see her back. Corset-style lacing led from the top of the skirt to mid-back, where the dress ended just below the woman's shoulder blades. A platinum streamer came from either side of the dress's waist, meeting and then crossing at the small of her back. The streamers flowed to the bottom of the dress, becoming gradually wider as they fell until they touched the floor and formed a short, rounded train.

"Oh my god," she whispered. "That's me?"

Catherine grinned. "_Now_ tell me you're still going to refuse to buy it if it costs more than a hundred bucks."


	129. Give me so much pleasure, give me so muc...

**A/N: **The letter and newspaper article in this chapter were both written by silverrain, for inclusion in MPL, and they depict events that may or may not happen in Ancient History (What? You thought I was going to tell you the ending to her story? Nope, look elsewhere for that.)

Chapter 129

            Sara was about to tweeze a fiber off a wall when her cell phone rang. Muttering a curse, she pocketed the tweezers and snapped open the offending device. "What?"

            Grissom's amused voice drifted through the phone lines. "Well, hello to you too. What's going on tonight?"

            "Nothing good. A break-in."

            "Ahh, so I picked a good day to take off. Listen, you got a minute?"

            Sara surveyed her surroundings. Nick was on the other side of the room, using an ALS and trying to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping on her; there had been no injury to a human and thus there were no ME workers or paramedics in the room; and the nearest policeman was wandering in circles outside of the house. "Yeah, I can give you a couple minutes, but this better be good. And don't you dare ask me for a refresher course on how to change diapers or something."

            "Hadn't even occurred to me. No, actually, this is about the mail."

            "The mail? Huh?"

            "The baby had a hyper day and I just got around to opening it now . . . So guess who we got a package from?"

            Sara sighed. "Just tell me, Gil. I don't feel like playing Jeopardy right now." Then, in spite of herself, she said, "Was it my mom?"

            With a chuckle, Grissom said, "Nope. Want to guess again, or do you want me to tell you?"

            "Spill it, bugman."

            "Ok. We got a big manila envelope from Meghan Carter. But wait," he added when he heard the sound of her mouth opening. "That's not the really interesting part. Guess what it says on the return address?" 

            Sara gamely attempted a guess. "A picture of her drawing her gun on Nick?"

            "That would be funny too, but no. It says, and I quote: 'M. and H. _Caine_.'"

            "WHAT?" Sara yelped, drawing Nick's attention. "Caine? Like they got married?"

            "Exactly. You want me to open it?"

            "Yeah. Hold on one sec, lemme get Nick off my back and go outside." Sara put a hand over the phone, turned around, and uttered a few sharp words to Nick. Grissom heard footsteps, and then a few seconds later Sara spoke again. "Ok. All clear, I'm sitting on the front stoop. Crack it open and tell me what's going on!"

            "Ok," Grissom said a minute later. "There's two things in here – a newspaper clipping and something that looks like one of those annoying Christmas letters people send out."

            "Read me the clipping," she ordered.

            "Coming right up. Ok, it . . . No! Galina, no. Don't stick your finger under there!" There was a screech from the baby, then the sound of Grissom sighing heavily. "Hold on, Sara." 

Sara pictured him picking the baby up and settling her against his chest, an image that was confirmed when she heard heavy baby breathing coming through the phone a few second before Grissom spoke again. "Sorry. Like I said, she's having a torture-dad day. Ok so I was going to read the news clipping." He cleared his throat, unfolded the paper, and began to read:__

**_Chaos In Courtroom #9_**

**_The ultimate story of truth, betrayal, sacrifice, passion and love._**

**_By Tamara Hammond_**

**_In St. John's Cathedral in Miami, Florida, a wedding is being performed. As in any ordinary ceremony, there are the usual tensions, traumas, and emotional overloads. Once the ceremony begins, both bride and groom manage to make it through without any breakdowns. Until the bride's vows, that is. 'Til death do we part,' she repeats after the priest, and then they both break into tears._**

**_Why the inexplicable amount of emotion at this seemingly ordinary wedding? Why is everyone in the audience crying? Because this is no everyday wedding, and the couple, Meghan and Horatio Caine, are not your everyday newlyweds. _**

**_It all began close to seven months ago, when Special Agent Meghan Carter, FBI, came to Miami in pursuit of a serial killer. Agent Carter is a profiler and behavioral scientist, a psychologist who uses her knowledge of the criminal mind (information gathered from serial killers, bombers, and rapists who have already been apprehended) to solve serial cases. In order to perform her duties, she is required to work in close conjunction with the Crime Scene Investigation department of the local police. Enter Lieutenant Horatio Caine, head of Crime Scene Investigation, or CSI as it is more commonly known, for the Miami-Dade Police. After a whirlwind three months working together on various crimes around the Miami-Dade area, they began to show signs of blossoming romance. But things suddenly began to turn for the worse. Agent Carter's sister died of a gunshot wound from Samuel Hart, a CSI working for Lieutenant Caine and the serial murderer Agent Carter was looking for. Carter's niece was found three days later in a creek, apparently drowned. _**

**_At this time Carter left the state, going to New Mexico, where she stayed with a friend. Lieutenant Caine, as head CSI, stayed behind to process the scene, only to find that Carter had allegedly killed her own sister. A three hundred dollar bounty was placed on Carter with a warrant for her arrest. Caine finally managed to come into contact with Carter, who told him that she was coming home. The day after she arrived, she was taken into custody and put into Florida State Women's Penitentiary. _**

**_As Carter waited out the two weeks to her trial, Caine worked furiously on the crime scene. In addition to the two bullets that it was thought Carter originally fired, two more were found embedded in a wall, meaning that four shots were fired. It was then discovered that Samuel Hart had duplicated Carter's gun and shot Theresa Carter, Meghan's sister. _**

**_In the courtroom, Caine presented the new evidence to the jury, who then overturned the sentence for Carter and placed it on Hart. Hart, furious, overpowered a security guard and took his gun. He confessed to being the serial killer that Carter had been after, stating that he'd been trying to get her off his back for years. He then pulled Lieutenant Caine out of the stand, took aim, and fired. _**

**_It was then that something truly amazing happened. As the dust cleared, Horatio Caine was still standing, completely unhurt. Pure miracle? Complete miss? _**

**_It was complete love. Meghan Carter had run between Caine and Hart, taking two bullets to the right shoulder. The doctors who later treated Carter told us that the subclavian artery had been completely severed, and also stated that if Alexx Woods, the medical examiner for the Miami-Dade police and a former RN, hadn't been there, Carter would have bled to death on the courtroom floor. Caine was later heard to be saying "Thank God for Alexx."_**

**_Thank God for Alexx, indeed. Carter slipped into a coma, and there was nothing left to do but pray._**

**_One month later, Carter woke to tumultuous applause from the nurses on duty, who had been there every step of the way. She was released that evening into Caine's care, where she recovered very quickly._**

**_I attempted to contact the couple at home, with little success. When I finally did get a hold of them, my first question for Carter was about her murderous co-worker. Her only reply was 'The scorpion likes living near you, where it can do the most damage.' _**

**_When I came to the most important question of all, 'Why?', she simply smiled and said 'Why not?' _**

The sound of Grissom clearing his throat came again. "That's the whole article," he said, "and the letter looks like it's twice as long. I refuse to read that over the phone too."

There was no response on the other end of the phone for a long second, then Sara's voice muttered, "No _shit_! Chelsea and Theresa are dead? That's crazy, Gris, and now Meg and Horatio are married? My god." 

She sounded breathless, and Grissom supposed she probably was. "My thoughts exactly," he said with a small laugh. "When do you think you're going to get home? I'm gonna be a good boy and not read the letter 'til you get here."

Sara checked her watch. It was 6:45 in the morning. Shift didn't officially end until 8, but she and Nick were almost done with their case. Besides, no one who worked with her was going to mind if she said she was going to be on pager for the last hour. "Hmmm. Give me about half an hour to get everything finished here and transported to the lab, then I'll head home."

She heard Galina coo, then Grissom's voice came back over the line. "Ok. See you then. Oh, and Sara?"

"What?"

"Hurry up!"

*********************

            Sara breezed in the front door exactly thirty minutes later, her car keys dangling half out of her pocket as though she'd shoved them in quickly. "Where is it?" was the first thing she said to Grissom, who was sitting on the couch making silly faces at the baby.

            "Breakfast bar," he answered without looking up. "Your turn to read out loud to me."

            Sara grumbled about demanding almost-husbands, then snatched the letter off of the counter. "Ok, you ready?"

            "Ready as I'll ever be. I can't wait to find out what Meghan has to say about everything."

            "Ok," Sara said, then scanned the first paragraph and began to read.

_Hello all!_

_Hey, what's up, Buenos Dias, Güten Tag, bonjour, and just about anything else I can think of. Life's been hell for the last few months, and I am therefore writing to bitch about it. I'm currently sitting at home typing a letter to you, because I am bored and my husband won't let me out of the house._

_And yes, you heard me correctly. Husband. I'm married. Score one for me!_

_Anyways, thought I'd update you on the situation. As I said, I am currently married to the most wonderful man on earth (except for maybe my dad, who has also been great about not slapping me across the head after the little courtroom fiasco two months ago. But I'll get to that next.) and am now…um…two months pregnant, I think. But Horatio doesn't know that yet. Hold on. I have to rescue the cat from behind the desk. I found her a week ago. She's this skinny, scruffy little snip of a cat, with an attitude like you wouldn't believe. I think I'll name her Sara. And don't you dare give me that look, Sidle._

_Anyways, now that the kitty is rescued and is terrorizing the dogs, what was I going to say? Oh, the courtroom thing. Sit down and get yourself a drink, folks. This is a very long and drawn-out ordeal. _

_Three months ago I was at work when I got a call from Theresa, who was at home. She tells me her (ex) boyfriend is beating her up and she thinks he's got a gun. I immediately leave, after telling Horatio and Sam (A new CSI), who calls the police. They go with me ("The guy has a gun and he's three times your size. Getting you hurt isn't an option." That's what Horatio said, I swear!) and we find out that he does indeed have a gun. A rather ominous-looking shotgun, in fact. _

_I won't bore you with details, but the entire point of the matter is that after trying to reason with him, the guy levels the gun and fires at Theresa and Chelsea (At which point Theresa drops dead), about the same time I attempt to blow him away. I then pull a runner to New Mexico, and Horatio stays behind. Everything that happens from here on out until the courtroom is hearsay from my dear husband. Alexx, the ME, found that it was actually a bullet from the type of gun I use that killed Theresa. Horatio had Calleigh run angles on everything, and it was discovered that I had apparently killed my own sister._

_Three days after Theresa died, Chelsea was found dead in a creek about two miles south of her house. She'd run out of the house when the bullets started flying. By now, there's three hundred dollars on my head and I'm wanted for third-degree murder. Such fun. Horatio finally manages to talk to me, and I go back to Miami, where the cops pick me up and I spend the next two weeks in jail awaiting a trial. Meanwhile, Horatio is working frantically to find something that proves me innocent. He has Calleigh run the angles again, and it is discovered that they're a bit off for me to have shot Theresa. Instead, it came from Sam, who had been standing behind me and to my left. Horatio went back to Theresa's house and found my two bullets in the wall. Now we have four bullets instead of the two I'd used, and here we run into a problem._

_Horatio somehow manages to get a warrant and finds another gun exactly like mine in Sam's house. He does a ballistics test on it and it matches the one that killed Theresa. Somehow he managed to duplicate my gun barrel. His bullet and mine are almost exactly alike except for one small difference that was said to be damage from the ricochet. It was really just Sam being stupid and messing up part of the mold he used to duplicate my gun._

_The day they were supposed to lock me up and throw away the key Horatio comes up to the stand and brings the new evidence to light, thus taking the blame off of me and putting it on Sam, who knocks out a security guard and takes his gun. He then confesses to close to 100 murders, including Theresa and Chelsea. Turns out he's the whole reason I'm in Miami in the first place. He also tells us how he framed me (made a mold of my gun barrel and changed his) and why he did it: To get me off his back so he could murder in peace. The bastard. _

_Everything else after the confession is actually kind of funny to me, although Horatio would probably say otherwise. Of course, the difference in perspective might have something to do with it. After all, when you're lying flat on your back bleeding to death, things are going to seem a bit more humorous than they used to. _

_Sam pulled Horatio out of the stand and tried to shoot him, and I jumped in front of Horatio. Damn good thing, too, because those two bullets that suddenly found themselves in my shoulder would have gone straight to his heart. That wouldn't have been fun for either of us. Of course, complete and total rupture of the subclavian artery wasn't exactly what I had in mind either, but who cares, I'm obviously still alive, albeit in a great deal of pain. Long story short, I spent a month in a coma, another one high on morphine most of the time while trying to regain use of my arm again, one planning my wedding, and there you have it. I've been married for two weeks now, and I'm loving every minute._

_Anyways, enough about me. My informant (who shall not be named for his own safety *coughNickcough*) tells me that Sara and Gris have a kid and are getting married soon. Hopefully I am forgiven enough for not remembering to invite them to my wedding to be allowed at said event. Besides, I want to see Gris doing the 'besotted daddy' deal. That has to be disgustingly cute. And Sara will probably want to meet her namesake. She's actually a very pretty cat. Once I fatten her up there'll be a calico jaguar going after Horatio, who appears to have suddenly become a six foot tall scratching post. There's now several cat-shaped dents in the living room wall because of this. But, alas, Jung and Freud (the dogs) will be so terribly sorry to see their new chew-toy go away, so I might as well take them too. They might trip over their ears, though (They're bassets and have the biggest ears I've ever seen), so it'll be worth it.  _

_Gotta go now, Horatio's home and he looks like he could use some serious smooch time. Not that I blame him. Life's been hectic lately. How much says he's out cold once I tell him we're gonna be parents?_

_Oh, and the other thing in here is the article that was written on the whole thing in addition to the wedding announcement. I thought it was hilarious. I like the sub-headline (or whatever you call it) best. 'The ultimate story of truth, betrayal, sacrifice, passion and love,'. Ha. What a load of bull. I just happen to love him a lot. Nothing special. _

_                                                                        Meg   _

            Sara turned the paper over to check for a P.S. but found nothing. With a groan, she hiked herself up to sit on the counter and continued to stare at the missive.

            "Ho-ly _crap_," Grissom said quietly. "That sounds like something out of a TV show."

            Sara, still unsure of whether to be happy about the marriage or upset about the deaths that led up to it, gave Grissom a weak smile and a shake of her head. "Yeah, like 'CSIs of Our Lives' or something, huh?"

            "Makes me think," Grissom ventured, laying the baby over one shoulder as he stood up and approached Sara, "just how lucky we are. Neither of us had to get hurt to get the other to prove that we love each other. We're both in fine health, and we have a new daughter, where Meghan has just lost the closest thing she had to one. We're definitely inviting them to the wedding, Sara." 

Moving a little closer, he put his free arm around Sara's shoulders and dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then changed the subject. "Would you do that for me?" he asked jokingly.

            "What? Take a bullet?" Sara pondered this for a moment, though she supposed that the answer wasn't in much doubt. "Probably," she admitted quite seriously, not looking at him.

            Grissom was taken aback. "I would never want you to do that, Sara! If you did that, and we both survived, I might kill you myself for doing something so utterly dumb."

            Sara didn't answer this, only said, "Would you do it for me?"

            Grissom looked taken aback. "I . . . uh. Well, I . . . yes," he finished simply.

            Sara smiled and shook her head. "Thanks pot, the kettle will keep that in mind." With that, she patted his cheek lightly, kissed the top of Galina's head, and headed for the shower.


	130. Vacation, all I ever wanted

**A/N**: Incredible amounts of props to Rosa, who once again helped me brainstorm and typo-check my way through an important and exceedingly long chapter!

**A/N 2**: For the reader who was terribly concerned that I would never end this, you will be pleased to know that the whole point of the last ten chapters or so has been the lead-up to the end of the story, i.e. the wedding. Also, though I appreciate the comparison to such a famous book, _War and _Peace is made of 570,254 words and 365 chapters, whereas "More Plant Lovin'" only consists of roughly 150,000 words and 130 chapters.

Chapter 130

            Grissom groaned indelicately for the third time in as many minutes and shot Sara a pleading look. "Come on, this is a thing _women_ do. You don't need me there, you'll have plenty of fun with everyone else."

            With a shameless grin, Sara wiggled her eyebrows. "It's not just a '_women_' thing, Gil. The whole point of a shower is that they want to celebrate us getting married. What, do you not want to celebrate? Having second thoughts about the whole getting-hitched thing?" she asked with a smirk.

            He harrumphed at her, though a smile was playing on the corner of his lips. "You know, Sara, at this point even if I _were_ having second thoughts, I wouldn't tell you – it would give you too much satisfaction." Sighing, he gripped the door handle as though preparing to jump out of the car and tried for the last time. This attempt was a whine, plain and simple. "Saraaaaa, do I have to? We already have a whole houseful of stuff; it's not like we need three new china patterns or something."

She snorted. "What, you think our friends – the psycho club – are going to give us things like _plates_? Try again, bugman – you know it's more likely to be a new ant farm for you and a, hmm . . . a _Kama Sutra_ or something for me, just so they can see us get embarrassed." She was gratified to see Grissom's eyes widen and a flush rise on his cheeks. "Embarrassed, Gris, or just making plans for later?"

"Sara!"

"Sorry . . . couldn't resist." She checked the sign on the corner of the street they were approaching. "Olga Drive, this should be it." Turning right onto it, she swung the car into a parking space in front of the restaurant Catherine had ordered them to be at in – she checked her watch – three minutes.

When Grissom gave her another pleading look, she only shook her head. "Suck it up, big guy. If I've got to be here, then so do you."

Their friends, most slightly inebriated, were already sitting down inside the restaurant. "Hey guys!" Catherine trilled as she caught sight of them. "Damn Sara, I can't believe you really got him here. More power to ya'!" 

Her greeting was echoed by the other members of the group. "What up?" Nick said with a lopsided grin, and began to giggle slightly.

In an action that seemed strangely reminiscent of . . . something that was tucked back in Sara's memory, Warrick reached out to smack Nick in the back of the head. "You know you're giggling, bro?" 

Nick immediately shut up and puffed out his chest, trying to look macho.

Susan, two martinis in the hole, punched Nick's arm, then rubbed where she'd just punched. "You are such a dork. Real men don't giggle!"

"Oh, bite me," he retorted, and reached out to ruffle her hair in the way he knew she hated.

Brass's voice brought then all back to the real world. "Ahem." When he had their attention, he smiled slightly. "See, I was under the impression that we were here for something other than to watch you two kids bicker," he said, raising an eyebrow at the still-giggling pair.

"Right!" Catherine jumped in. "Yeah, there was this thing called a 'wedding shower' we were gonna do . . . So Sara, Grissom – sit on down."

As they did, Sara leaned into Grissom and whispered, "She sounds entirely too happy about this. You think it's the alcohol, or you think she's got something that we won't like planned?"

Grissom shrugged elaborately. "You're the one who wanted to do this, Sidle. If it were up to me we'd be home and saving a small fortune on babysitter money right now."

"Now," Catherine continued, pretending not to notice the whispers, "as per your request, Sara, we aren't playing any games or anything today. We'll have a nice, sedate lunch, during which we'll all give you our best wishes." She paused, waiting for the inevitable sighs of relief from the two most attention-hating people she knew, then continued, trying to hide the huge smile that was threatening behind her calm face. "Nope, no games or anything . . . just . . . _presents_."

Her tone immediately washed away the complacency that Grissom and Sara had just begun to feel. "Uh, Cath?" Sara asked cautiously. "Why exactly do you say 'presents' like it's the funniest thing in the world?"

With an exaggeratedly unconcerned look on his face, Greg spoke up. "Now, Sara, why would you think that? We're all just here to, uh . . . celebrate." Unlike Catherine, who had years more experience, Greg was unable to keep his laughter from bursting out. "Celebrate!" he repeated to himself, squinching his eyes shut and slapping his knee. "Celebrate!"

"Ooookay," Grissom said in his I'm-the-boss tone. "Since you guys seem to have something planned after all, why don't we skip the secret-keeping and skip ahead to the 'Embarrass Gil and Sara' part?"

"Works for me," announced Catherine, and the rest of the group nodded. "Boys?" she asked, looking at Nick and Warrick. "You two want to go first?"

Both men grinned, then Warrick pulled two flat items out from behind the table while Nick switched places with Susan so he could sit next to Sara. As he handed one of the packages to Nick, who promptly shoved it behind his back so Sara couldn't peek, Warrick spoke. "Ok guys, well we figured that now that you're getting married and all, it's about time you start acting like a married couple and getting bored with each other. So to help each of you along on that, we got you . . . these." As Warrick said "these," he handed his package to Sara and Nick handed his to Grissom.

As she eyed the object in her hands, Sara blinked in confusion. "A calendar?"

"Turn it over, Sara," suggested Grissom, who was staring at his with his eyebrows up around his hairline.

She did. "Oh my god, you guys are evil!" A chorus of "What?" and "huh?" rang out as everyone tried to pile over the person next to them to see what surprised Sara so much. "It's . . ." Sara began to explain, then was interrupted by a laughing fit.

Grissom, patted her back, beginning to laugh himself, and picked up where she'd left off. ". . .his and hers calendars. Sara got a, uh" – he sneaked a peek over her shoulder to read the name - "Chippendales calendar, and I got a . . ." He stopped and began to turn red.

"And he got a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit calendar," Sara finished, wiping tears of laughter off her cheeks. Reaching over, she half-hugged Warrick, then Nick. "You guys are insane, you know that?

"Ohhh," Catherine said with a mischievous smile at her, "Greg and I can beat that."

"Uh-oh," Grissom managed, though he didn't look particularly frightened. "I'm afraid to ask."

"So don't ask!" Greg chirped. "Just let us give you what we got!"

Grissom and Sara looked at each other and shrugged. "Go ahead," Sara said apprehensively, and held out her hand for whatever the pair was going to give.

"Nope," Catherine said, still grinning. "Your hand isn't going to hold this, Sara. Better give us both." 

Sara did, and was handed what was perhaps the tackiest beach bag she'd ever seen. It was made of that frustrating sort of plastic/vinyl material that's guaranteed to stick to a sweaty body at the beach, and emblazoned all over with pictured and names of the various tourist traps in Las Vegas. "Um, Catherine. In case you hadn't noticed, we don't live near the ocean, and we already know the sights of the Strip."

"Never mind that," the other woman said, making shooing motions. "Go on and open it, it'll all start to make sense soon."

Sara, looking exceedingly wary, handed Grissom the bag and ordered him to open it. When he did, the first expression on his face was confusion. Reaching in, he pulled out what looked like a can of hair mousse. "Um . . . what is this?" he asked blankly.

Taking it from his hand, Sara examined the item in question. "Body mousse? What the hell's a body mousse for, to style Grissom's leg hair?" Still confused, she took another look. "Dr. Licious's Body Mousse? 'New Strawberry Flavor'?"

Greg couldn't contain his snort. "Man, you guys are so repressed if you don't know what that stuff is for!"

"GREG!" Sara yelped, finally figuring it out. "I can't believe you guys bought us this stuff! And it has . . . _sprinkles_? SPRINKLES?" Unable to control it, she tumbled over sideways, landing between Nick's back and the back of the booth. "Can't . . . breathe . . . Laughing too . . . hard!"

"Uh, Sara?" Grissom said as he reached for the next item in the bag. "I think you'd better sit up and look what else they gave us." When she was sitting upright again, he began to hand items off to her one at a time, identifying them as best he could. "Body oil, which I assume is similar to the, uh, mousse . . .Twister? The game? Ooookay, we'll look at that later . . . a beach ball?" He stopped to give Catherine a strange look. "This is all a little incongruous, isn't it, Cath?"

Catherine simply shrugged. "Keep digging."

"Fuzzy . . ." He coughed. "Fuzzy handcuffs." After the laugher that broke out at that item had died down, he glared dangerously at the grinning pair who had contributed this odd gift bag, then continued. "Good-diver Chocolate Body Paint? Hell, I didn't even know stuff like this existed!" he said without thinking, then turned a violent red when he realized what had just come out of his mouth.

With a smirk, Sara took the bag from him. "I think that's enough out of you, bud. I'll finish this while you try to recover your dignity." Reaching in, she pulled out the last item, a frisbee. "You guys are both insane," she told Catherine and Greg as she examined the toy for any possible sexual twist. "You know that, right?"

Greg just smirked. "You shall understand soon, my sweet."

Grissom cleared his throat. "Bad idea, Sanders. I don't think I'm going to like any guy who gives Sara a bag full of, uh, bedroom stuff, and then calls her his 'sweet.' Back off," he said, faking a dangerous tone.

Cringing behind Catherine, Greg managed a "Yessir!"

"Okay," Sara asked. "Who or what is next?"

"That'd be me, Sara," Brass offered. "And before you get your hopes up, you won't be getting any more of that kind of thing from me." He calmly handed her a carefully wrapped gift box.

"Why Brass," she grinned. "You've gone classy!" She carefully slid a finger under the ribbon and slid it off the box, then peeled back the edges of the paper. Looking up, she noticed that everyone was staring at her impatiently. "What? I'm a careful unwrapper!" she told them as she pulled out the last edge and examined the unmarked box. "Hmm, no visible evidence on the outside. Anyone got an ALS handy?"

"Just open it, Sara!" Nick ordered.

"Oh, shut up," she shot back, but did as ordered. Pulling out the box's contents, she blinked. "Towels?"

"Well, they're monogrammed towels," Brass tried to explain as Sara unfolded them.

"So they are. Gris, take a look. These are swanky!"

Grissom only shook his head and laughed. "Thanks, Jim. I'm sure they'll come in handy somehow – probably to dry the baby after baths."

"Ohhh," Susan cut in teasingly, "I think you might find better uses for them. Here, open mine next." She thrust a misshapen wrapped object across the table toward Grissom.

Unlike Sara, Grissom usually preferred to just yank off the paper to get to what was underneath, and this time was no different. The paper had covered a basket full of . . . things. "Suntan lotion, Susan? And aloe? This brings us back to Sara's point that we don't live near the ocean." He pulled out more small items, all beach- or sun-related. "Well, uh . . . thanks." He was surprised when Susan didn't look at all offended at his flat tone, only kept smiling at him.

When Grissom had put everything back into the basket, Catherine stood up. "Ok guys, there's one more present. We all chipped in on it," she explained, handing Sara a ribbon-bound bundle of cloth.

Sara turned the pile over. "What the . . ." she began, then decided to find out for herself. Tugging on the end of the ribbon, she untied it and shook out – well, tried to shake out – the briefest bathing suit top she'd ever seen. Blinking, she pulled out the next piece and found equally skimpy bikini bottoms. "Guys, you know I don't wear things like this!" No one answered her.

Somewhere between confusion and frustration, she tugged out the last piece of fabric. After a few seconds of looking at it, she screamed a laugh, then threw a hand over her mouth to quiet it. "Gris . . . Grissom . . . I think this is, uh . . . for you," she managed, and threw the neon green Speedo at him.

Grissom gave the thing a look of horror. "Good Christ!" he yelped, and quickly threw it back at Sara.

"Oops, wait," Sara said, cutting short the bathing suit duel that was about to begin. "I dropped something out of it." She bent over to pick up whatever had fell, then straightened up slowly. "Guys . . ." she said slowly. "Are these tickets to something?"

"Give me those," Grissom said, and snatched the pieces of paper out of her hand. "Princess Cruise Lines?" He turned suspicious eyes to Catherine. "Explain."

"Figure it out for yourself," she retorted, and motioned him back to the tickets in his hand.

"Princess Cruise Lines," he read again, "welcomes you to our cruising family." Following that were a date – "May 28th 2004," and the words "Round trip: Trans-Atlantic."

"A cruise?" Sara squeaked. "You're sending us on a _cruise_? But we . . . I, the baby . . ."

"She'll be over a year old then, Sara, and eating solid foods," Susan pointed out. "And Catherine and I will share her while you're away."

Sara was drawing a blank on how to construct a coherent English sentence. Looking down, she met Grissom's equally glazed eyes and allowed herself to fall back onto the seat, half-on him and half-off.

Giving her a small smile, Grissom kissed the tip of her nose. "I guess that explains the beach ball," he whispered.


	131. We are beautiful, no matter what they sa...

"Mooooom," Sara whined. "Everything's fine, stop picking at me!"

"Well!" Amy Sidle said in a voice dripping with offended sarcasm. "I'm just _so_ sorry. I can't imagine what came over me, to want to make sure my daughter looks her best before she leaves the store with her wedding dress. What kind of crazy mother am I?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Fine. Sorry Mom, feel free to keep pinching and tugging, but I'm holding you accountable if you break something – on me or on the dress!" She turned back toward the mirror, unable to resist twitching the skirt a little despite what she'd just told her mother. "Are you guys really, really sure that this top isn't going to fall down?" she asked slightly desperately as she tugged at the bodice, which in fact hadn't moved an inch since she'd put the dress on.

"It'll be _fine_," Catherine said firmly, patting Sara's arm. "Your boobs aren't all that small now anyway. Uh, sorry Mrs. Sidle," she apologized quickly. "I was just trying to . . "

"I know, Catherine. Don't worry about me. You and I probably have more right to critique her chest at this point than anyone other than the baby. Oh!" she added as thought the thought had just struck her. "And how _is_ the breastfeeding going, sweetie?"

"Mom!" 

Mrs. Sidle couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her. "Oh, loosen up, Sara. I'm your mom, I had to do it for you, so it's only fair that you discuss it with me now that you're doing it."

Sara gritted her teeth. "You are an _evil_ mother, is what you are," she teased. "Hey Cath – where are the shoes? I want to move down to other parts of my body before my mom starts asking more embarrassing questions."

Her mother only wiggled her eyebrows slightly. "So, how much did your ankles swell the last few months you were carrying Galina?" She laughed and took a step back when Sara tried to jump off the pedestal she had been balancing on to clap a hand over her mother's mouth. "Ok, fine. I'll ask you all those questions _after_ we leave the store."

As if on cue, Catherine dramatically whisked open a shoebox to reveal a pair of satin ankle boots dyed to exactly match the platinum ribbon on Sara's dress.

Her mother hadn't seen the shoes before, and Sara nearly collapsed in a laughing fit at the look that crossed her face when the box was opened. "Oh my god, Mom, that was priceless! Nice one, Cath!" she giggled, reaching out to high-five her friend.

"Sara, please tell me these are a joke."

"Um, nope, sorry. I'm really wearing them. No one's going to be able to see anything but my toes anyway, so why not wear what I'm comfortable in? And think of it this way," she added with a smirk. "Now you won't have to worry about me falling off my high heels and embarrassing myself in front of the family."

Putting a theatrical hand to her forehead, Amy sank down on the nearest chair. "What did I do to deserve a kid like this, God? Is this my punishment for wearing tie-dye in the 60s?" 

Sara snorted. "You know, it just might be. I've seen pictures of you and Dad, it was traumatizing!"

Catherine, who wanted to get home sometime before it was time to leave for work, waved a hand between the two grinning women. "Ok, ok, time's up. Save the bickering for the car ride home, ladies, because some of us have to be home to pick our children up from school in . . ." She paused to check her watch. "In one and a half hours." Clapping her hands together lightly, she added, "Chop chop!"

******************************************************************************************************************************

            Grissom sighed and unknotted the bowtie so he could take another shot at it. "Remind me, Warrick, why exactly you thought it imperative that none of us wear 'those cheap clip-on ties'?"

            Warrick, who had been working on Nick's bowtie, turned around with a laugh. "Because it's _classy_, Gris, remember? Do you want to be sitting with your daughter twenty years from now and have to explain to her that no, Daddy didn't bother with high-quality wedding gear, he just wore what was easiest?"

            Nick slapped Warrick's hand away from his neck and snorted. "Somehow, I doubt that Galya's going to care about that particular fact. I'm with Grissom; no one will even be able to tell if we're wearing tied ties or not!" Tugging at his collar, he added, "Besides, at least the fake ones didn't make me feel like I was choking."

            "Oh, suck it up, guys," Greg threw in from his nest of clothing in the corner. "If _I'm_ not complaining about having to wear this getup, then neither of you should be either. Unlike me, you guys are at least used to wearing a tie every day!"

Nick and Warrick exchanged looks. "So, War, exactly when was the last time you wore a tie?"

"Chaunce trial," Warrick answered promptly. "And that was definitely a sucky day – not exactly a day you want to get used to."

"I'll say," Nick agreed with a sigh. "Not good for our necks and not good for Susan's nerves."

"Hey, yeah!" Greg exclaimed. "What's up with you two lovebirds, anyway? Sara told me you went to the movies with her last weekend," he singsonged.

Nick growled, but restrained himself from injuring the lab tech. "You better be glad you're wearing a freakin' expensive rental right now, Sanders, or else I'd smack you around some. Sue and I aren't any of your business, squirt!"

Grissom cleared his throat. "Can we attempt to get back to the subject at hand, please, boys? Warrick, come here and show me this again. I can do it on someone else, but I can't get the hang of doing it upside-down on myself."

Warrick patted Nick on the shoulder, ordered him to practice, and went to help Grissom. Meanwhile, Greg, who had somehow managed to dress and tie himself with absolutely no trouble, began to take off his layers of dress clothing while looking longingly at his baggy jeans, which were currently draped over a chair. "Nick," he said pleadingly, "promise me that when you get married, we all get to wear jeans?"

"Sure, Greg – if I haven't killed you by then."


	132. I'm the only one

"Dude," Nick said as he, Greg, and Warrick got out of his car, "remind me why we had to have the rehearsal at my house?"

"What is 'because that's where the wedding's gonna be,' Alex?" Greg answered jokingly. 

"Well I was going to phrase it nicer," Warrick said with a chuckle, "but the kid's right, Nick. It makes life easier to have the rehearsal at the same place the actual wedding is gonna happen. Otherwise we'd end up with Sara tripping over a potted plant and Grissom knocking over a tent pole on the big day instead of doing it tonight like they did."

"But who's gonna help me clean up the whole yard tonight and then re-set everything for tomorrow?" Nick whined. "It's already 9 o'clock!"

"Chill out, Nick," Susan said over the top of Nick's car as she climbed out of her own. "I'll help you set up if you think it's gonna be that difficult." Standing on tiptoe so she could see over the car's roof, she wiggled her eyebrows at Warrick and Greg, then directed her attention back to Nick. "Everyone knows it takes a woman half an hour to do what a man need six hours for."

Greg snickered. "I'm going to pretend that I didn't just get the mental image I got from that one, Susan. Now," he added, "since we're all here, how about we go inside? I don't know about any of you, but I'm about to start gnawing on Warrick's arm if I don't get some food soon."

Warrick yelped in mock-distress and jumped backward, holding his arms close to his body. "Down, boy. Food in a few minutes. We just gotta wait for the familial reinforcements."

Catherine, who had been bent over the back seat of Susan's car, trying to get a firm hold on the box that held the groom's cake, straightened up and smiled at Warrick. "Familial reinforcements? Nice, War."

"Well what would _you_ call them, Miss Brilliance?"

"Hmm," Catherine said, hefting the box into her arms and following Susan over to the group of men, "how about 'the rest of the group'?"

" 'The rest of the group,' what?" asked Sara, who had suddenly materialized behind them along with her family, Grissom, and two of the bridesmaids.

Catherine jerked a shoulder in her best attempt at a no-handed wave to Sara. "We were discussing what to label you, Grissom, and your family. Warrick said 'the familial reinforcements,' I say 'the rest of the group'."

Grissom grinned. "I don't think any of us care what you call us at this point, as long as you feed us." He turned to look at the group behind him. When they all nodded enthusiastically, he turned back to Catherine. "Yep, we're in agreement about that. How about we get inside, eat, and _then_ discuss it?"

*******************************************************************************************************************************

            "Well it's not _my_ fault that someone put that flowerpot there!" Sara protested loudly, frowning good-naturedly at Nick. "It's your backyard; I bet you put it there on purpose, just to trip me up!"

            "Face it, Sara," teased her friend Michaela, hoisting the bite of cake on her fork in a mock-salute. "You're not exactly grace embodied. You were a klutz in school, too, and it hasn't gotten much better."

            "Oh, come on," Sara shot back. "How many people did you know at Harvard who were more interested in making sure they didn't walk into any trees than in making sure they'd gotten the formula from Dr. Nickel's last lecture right?"

            "Um, sorry to tell you, but that would be most of the campus other than you and me, hon." She shrugged. "But hey, we're the ones with good jobs these days, so who's laughing now?"

            Sara's brother grinned. "I like that philosophy. Works for me and Kate, right hon?" he asked, looking across the table at his wife.

            "Are you calling me a klutz, Andy Sidle?"

            "Erm . . . no, dear." He ducked the joking swat that came toward him, then opened his eyes and laughed. "My theory is that it runs in the family and you were forced to acquire it when you married me."

            "If we weren't sitting in a nice restaurant right now, I'd throw something at you," she replied sweetly. "Just wait 'til I get you home."

            "Children!" Sara's father exclaimed. "Behave yourselves, all of you," he added playfully, looking around the table, "or I might be forced to send some of you to bed without dessert."

            "No fair, Dad!" Sara whined. "You can't deny the bride a piece of cake!"

            "It's okay, honey," her mother said, patting Sara's hand. "Just tell him the cake is part of the essential nutrition needed while you're breastfeeding."

            "Yeah, Dad – what she said!"

            Grissom, who had been watching all this with amusement, cleared his throat. "Not that I want to interrupt a discussion about Sara and her cake, but it's starting to get late and we have gifts to give to you kind people . . ."

            "Hey!" Greg chirped, elbowing Nick. "He called us kind!"

            Nick raised his eyebrows and gave the younger man with an indulgent look. "Right, Greg-o. Just keep telling yourself that."

            Sara gave the two men a quelling look and shifted toward Grissom. "Yeah, guys, we want to thank you for being with us in the wedding, and helping set it up, and putting up with the assorted strange things that happen when you put me and Gris together and ask us to organize something like this. So girls, these are from me," she said, handing each of the four women a small box.

            "And these are from me," Grissom added, handing slightly larger boxes to the groomsmen.

            The only sound for a few moments was that of rusting paper, then Catherine spoke up. "Hey, wow, Sara. These are beautiful!" she said, holding up the inscribed silver bracelet that had come from her box. "It says my name across the top, and underneath it says . . ." she added, turning the bracelet over, " 'Gil and Sara, 2004'." The other bridesmaids made similar comments as they opened their boxes. 

"Thanks, Sara," said Susan, turning over her bracelet to examine it.

"Sweet!" contributed Michaela. "Catherine's right, these are really nice. Thanks!" She stood up to hug Sara, and soon they were surrounded by the other three bridesmaids in a group hug.

"Okay, okay," Sara finally said, stepping back out of the mass of people. "Let's squeal about it later and give the guys a chance to open their stuff now."

The men pulled open their boxes and checked out the contents. "Nice," Nick chuckled. "A flask. Just what I need to start carrying to help me make it through work."

Grissom laughed. "I'd better not see that on you at work, Nick. Or on you two," he added, eyeing Warrick and Greg. "And not tomorrow, either, please. Other than that, knock yourselves out."

There was no group hug for the men, of course, so Grissom simply looked around to make sure that everyone was settled down, then said, "We hope you all like them . . . you have no idea of the strange wedding party gifts out there. And on that note . . . let's return to the cake!" Sitting down, he leaned over to kiss Sara, then dug in to his dessert.


	133. Times like these

**A/N:** I am SO sorry about my sudden disappearance, guys! The past two weeks have been positively insane, and today is the first day I actually had time to sit down and do something other than work or prepare to work. Anyway, this is the second-to-last chapter of the story, just so you know. Enjoy!

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Sara yawned hugely, squinching her eyes shut. "God, no one ever told me how little sleep a bride gets." Surveying her surroundings, she added, "I suppose it wouldn't be a good idea to fall asleep while my hair's being done, huh Cath?"

"Yeah," Catherine said with a chuckle. "Bad idea – you might end up with something girly." Turning her head as far as the hairdresser's busy hands would allow, she offered Sara a smile. "You'll wake up as the day goes on. By the time we get you to Nick's, I fully expect to have to tie you down to make you stay still."

"It's your fault that I'm tired," Sara mock-whined. "You kept me out too late last night."

Susan, who was in a chair next to Michaela and across the aisle from Sara, sighed and shook her head sadly. "Sara, it's called a 'par-ty'. People often have them before they get married. In your case, since you're female, it was a bachelorette party. You said yourself that if Grissom was going to have one, you wanted one."

"Besides," Kate threw in, "I wouldn't say that two drinks at Applebees, with the waiters singing 'Happy Wedding to You' . . . well, I wouldn't exactly call that a wild bachelorette party."

Michaela giggled from her position at the sink. "Nice, Kate. She's right, Sara. Face it, you're getting old and boring and you're not even married yet!"

"Am not!" Sara retorted. "Didn't I let you guys drag me out bowling this morning?"

Four female voices erupted into laughter. "Who wants to be the one to tell her?" Catherine asked with a grin.

"Not it!" When the dust had settled, Michaela, who was forced to hold a towel on her head and didn't have a free finger to put against her nose, was left to explain to Sara that bowling wasn't exactly known as a wild and crazy activity.

Sara frowned at her bridesmaids. "You guys better watch it or . . . well, between me and Grissom, there's no chance you'd be found." She grinned at the looks that crossed their faces. Catherine and Kate looked terribly amused, while Susan smirked warily and Michaela looked around nervously.

*******************************************************************************************************************************

Grissom checked his watch for the tenth time in the last hour. "Don't you guys think we should start getting dressed or something? It's already noon . . ."

"Not so _loud_," moaned Greg. "If you talk any louder, my head is gonna explode and you'll have bits of gray matter splattered all over your tux." He put a hand to his head and pressed, letting out another weak moan.

"Pussy," Warrick muttered behind his hand to Nick, who snorted.

"Come on Greggo, admit it. You just can't hold your liquor. Last night wasn't all _that_ crazy," Nick said.

"Speak for yourself, man; I don't know about you but I had four beers and two shots of tequila."

The other four men exchanged worried looks at this pronouncement. "Greg," Grissom warned from his prone position on the couch, "if you get one bit of bodily matter on my clothes, you're fired." Half-sitting up, he reached out a hand and shoved at the dog that was stretched out next to him. "Dog breath, ugh. Up, Newton!"

The dog didn't move and Nick grinned. "Face it, Gris; Sara and Susan are the only people that dog will obey unquestioningly. With you, she wants a complete scientific explanation of why she should do anything at your command."

"Hey, who buys the dog food around here?" Grissom said huffily, and shoved at the dog again. She finally surrendered and allowed herself to be rolled off the couch, then gave Grissom a mournful look and padded over to Nick, who was already patting the empty area on the loveseat he'd claimed two hours earlier.

"Come on," Grissom said, checking his watch again. "We really should be doing something. Guys, the women were up at 8AM to get themselves primped, for heaven's sake; are you sure we don't need to get started?"

Andy, who was sitting with his back against the side of Grissom's couch, occupying a large swath of floor, looked around at the three other groomsmen. When none of them spoke, he sighed and put down the bottle of soda he'd been drinking. "Gil," he said solemnly, "we're male. It takes us, what, three minutes each to shower? And then, say, another fifteen to wrestle ourselves into those tuxedos?"  Imitating Grissom, he checked his watch. "It's currently twelve-oh-eight. The wedding starts at 4PM. Nick's house can't be more than a twenty minute drive from here, if that."

"He's right, Gris," Warrick threw in. "We could sit here and do nothing until 3:15 and probably still get there in time."

"But . . ."

"Not so LOUD!" Greg suddenly yelled, causing the other men to jump in surprise and himself to moan in pain.

"If you're gonna throw up, Sanders, the bathroom's that way," Grissom said, pointing. "If you do it anywhere other than in there, you're cleaning it up. And if you wake up the baby," he added with a threatening look on his face, "then you're just plain dead."

"Oooooooooo," chorused the three other men. "Better do what he says, bro," Nick said with a laugh. "You've never seen Grissom when he gets really mad, and you don't ever _want_ to see it."

"Hell yeah," Warrick agreed.

"Well," Grissom said, getting bored of threatening Greg, who was so predictable in his cowering, "what are we going to do for the next three hours, then?"

"Beer?" Nick suggested.

"No way!" Warrick snapped back. "Do you _want_ to see Grissom kill Greg?"

"Well it wouldn't be . . ."

Andy cut him off before he could finish. "How about we go for something that's not likely to kill anyone, like pizza and football. There's a 49ers game on in ten minutes or so – what say we order a pizza, make some popcorn or whatever, and veg for the next few hours?"

"Sounds good," Grissom said, nodding. "Guys?"

"Yep," Nick said brightly.

"Sure," Warrick agreed, nodding.

"Oh god . . . don't talk about food," Greg moaned, and dropped his head into his hands.


	134. I give my hand to you with all my heart

**_A/N_: **Well guys, we've come to the end of the road. I just want to thank everyone for sticking with me on this story – I know that it's got to be a little annoying after 133 chapters. The Yahoo! Group girls (and guy), especially Rosa, Niff, Peggie, and Geena, have been my biggest supporters so I just want to thank them for being around to smack me every now and then when I had a brain blockage or needed help at a crossroads in the story. A big fat kiss to you all – MWAH!

**_A/N #2:_** I have never been in a wedding (or gotten married!), so the ceremony I'm describing is sort of a composite of what I've seen in the few weddings I've attended, the bits of information I've been able to gather from websites, and my own fertile imagination. I'm sure things will be in the wrong order, or someone will say the wrong thing, or they'll do something completely uncommon, so let's just pretend that the world in my mind is the real world for the duration of this chapter ;)

Chapter 134

Sara checked the watch she'd stuffed into a hidden dress pocket: 3:45 P.M. T-minus 15 minutes, and the men still weren't here – just like them, she thought wryly. She'd have bet anything that the four groomsmen had Grissom cornered and were trying to explain to him that real men didn't get excited about things like this.

Grissom _was_ excited, she knew that much. Neither of them had slept much last night. Instead, they'd tossed, turned, and chattered to each other. She told him about her difficulties in getting the streamers on the back of the gown to lay correctly and not tangle under her feet; he countered by asking her if she'd ever tried to tie a bowtie. 

Frankly, she was pretty sure that they'd both be relieved when this day was over and life returned to normal.

"Hey, Sara," Michaela said quietly from behind her.

"Yeah?"

"They're here; you can start breathing again."

Sara drew in a deep breath and exhaled comically. She turned to her friend, smiling. "Thanks, hon. Hey, you know what I just remembered, too?"

"No," the other woman said quizzically, "what?"

Sara grinned. "You owe me twenty bucks. Remember the bet?"

Michaela was quiet for a second, thinking, then she exclaimed, "Sara! I can't believe you remembered that thing. It's a ten-year-old bet; the statute of limitations is _so_ up!"

"Uh-uh, kiddo." Sara held out her hand, palm up. "I'm getting married first, so I win – pay up, Mich!"

Another voice suddenly spoke up from behind them. "Man, Sara, this is your wedding day, stop gouging the bridesmaids!"

Sara turned. "Nick, you of all people should know that it's never the wrong time to win a bet." Even though she was trying to sound chastising, she couldn't hide the smile that worked its way across her face. "So?" she asked, holding out her arms and twirling around in front of him. "How do I look?"

Nick took her hand and spun her around one more time, then pulled her into a hug. "You, my dear, look absolutely beautiful. You sure clean up nice!"

"Jerk," Sara said lightly. "I'd hit you, but I wouldn't want to muss your penguin suit." She dusted some imaginary fuzz off of his lapel, then stepped back. "So, where's Grissom?"

"Last I saw, he was hiding in my kitchen, trying to stop panicking about everything turning out right."

"How cute!" Michaela chimed in. "See Sara, now that's how you know you caught a good one – he's more worried about your wedding day turning out perfectly than you are!" 

She was about to add something more to her statement when Nick checked his watch, which somehow didn't look déclassé next to his tuxedo cuff, and raised his eyebrows. "Five of, kid – time for you to go hide out wherever it is that you're supposed to hide out until the music starts. And you," he said, turning to Michaela, "need to come with me so we can all get set up at the front."

"Sure," both women chorused, and the group split so that everyone could take their places.

*************************************************************************************************************************

            Grissom tugged once more at his bowtie, though he knew from frustrating experience that the fabric had no give and tugging wouldn't make it any easier for him to breathe. He scanned the yard, doing a silent last minute check, and nodded. The flowers were in place, there were no small children eating the flowers, and there was no Great Dane eating the small children. All was well.

            He sighed. "All" wouldn't be "well" until this whole thing was over and he was married to Sara. He was no good at emotional scenes like wedding, and as the hands of his watch crept closer to 4:00, his anxiety level rose.

            "Gris," Nick whispered from Grissom's left side, "it'll be fine. I saw Sara a few minutes ago and she looks great. She was demanding that Michaela pay up on an old college bet when I last checked." With that, he quickly turned and jogged back to the house, where he needed to be when the wedding began.

            Nick's statement fulfilled its purpose, and Grissom cracked a smile. "That's my Sara," he whispered to himself as he relaxed his stance an iota. "She's . . ." He was cut off by the sound of the Trumpet Voluntary as it blared from the sound system Nick and Warrick had set up at the back door of Nick's house.

            This was it. The wedding was starting. Grissom straightened up from his relaxed position, gaze fixed on the door the wedding procession would be coming through at any moment.

            The door opened to reveal Michaela, the maid of honor, and Nick, and best man. They began their slow walk down the aisle and were soon followed by Jeff and Kate, then by Catherine and Warrick, and finally by Susan and a beaming Greg. 

A few seconds after Susan and Greg reached the middle of the aisle, the door opened again to reveal Lindsey, who had a small ring of flowers on her head and a basket of petals in her hand. The audience released an "Awww" as Lindsey walked down the aisle, strewing the petals with a big grin on her face. When she reached the front of the yard, she stepped into line next to Michaela, and everyone's heads turned back toward Nick's house.

There was silence for a few seconds, then a collective sigh as Pachelbel's Canon in D began to play. The door opened again, more slowly this time, and Sara and her father were revealed. Sara's face was tight, and she looked as though she was concentrating on not tripping over her own feet.

Steve Sidle was bursting with pride as he helped his daughter down the aisle. His little girl, getting married, he thought . . . and to a man he actually approved of! He couldn't help but look down at his wife as they passed the front row of seats, and wasn't surprised to see that she was already crying, holding the baby with one arm and a tissue with the other.

"Doin' ok?" he asked Sara in a whisper as they reached the table that was serving as an altar. She nodded slightly, and he gave her arm one last squeeze. Sara's eyes sparkled as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, whispering, "I love you, sweetie."

"I know Daddy," Sara replied quietly, and watched, as though from a distance, as her father stood her between himself and Grissom. Raising her eyes to meet Grissom's, she just couldn't help it – her face split into the wide grin that was so well-loved by her friends and family.

"Hi," he said almost inaudibly.

"Hi." 

As if on an unspoken command, they pulled their eyes from each others' and turned to face the officiant of the ceremony, a Humanist Celebrant, as he began to speak:

"To marry is to form an equal partnership, tied together by the tenuous bonds of emotion and love. It is at once the most fragile of relationships and the strongest. Fragile because it requires exactly the right mix of freedom and inter-dependence, of caring and of sharing, of being together and of being alone.

"But it is strong because it involves the unseen forces of something we usually call love— mutual devotion, concern for the happiness of the other, joy in each other's company. For there is no stronger force involving human relationships than this silent bond of love.

"Remember that this wedding is only a symbol, a celebration, a public recognition of what already exists in the silent places of your hearts. It is your marriage and not something created by the state or the church—it is yours to define, yours to make real, yours to live. Nothing I can say can make it anything more than what already exists in your hearts.

"Remember also that marriage is a shared relationship, not a matter of possession. It is a means of showing your commitment to one another, not a blind surrendering of personality. It is not an excuse to become limited in your outlook; it is an opportunity for mutual growth.

"Others would ask, at this time, who gives the bride in marriage, but, as a woman is not property to be bought and sold, given and taken, I ask simply if she comes of her own will and if she has her family's blessing.

"Sara, is it true that you come of your own free will and accord?"

"Yes," Sara replied firmly, "it is."

"Who has come with you to this moment, and who gives you their blessing?"

Her father stepped slightly forward. "I've come with her, and her mother and I give our blessing."

The Celebrant smiled and turned to Sara and Grissom. "Sara and Gil, you have invited this group to witness the happiness that you have found in each other. Are you ready to make the pledges with which you commit yourselves to each other in love?"

Grissom reached for Sara's hand and took it gently. "We are," he said with a nod.

"We are gathered here to join this man and this woman in marriage, and in so doing join them and their child into a new family. Marriage is an act as ancient as the history of the human race and as new as each new morning; for it speaks of the past and of the future, of the life of the individual and the existence of the community. It is a commitment, the essence of which is the taking of another person in his or her entirety, as lover, companion, and friend. 

"Because marriage and parenthood are concerned with the most fundamental of human relationships, they must not be regarded lightly. Those who enter into this relationship shall cherish for each other a mutual esteem and love, bear each other's infirmities and weaknesses, comfort each other in sickness, trouble and sorrow, encourage each other and live together as the heirs of life. Marriage is not to be entered into unadvisedly, but with devotion and discretion. Love and loyalty will avail as the foundation of a happy and enduring home; and if the solemn vows you are about to make be kept with honor and integrity, your life will be full of peace and joy, and the home you are establishing will be one of warmth and understanding. 

"Sara and Gil, you have come to this celebration with an awareness that your marriage will have its rewards and its joys, as well as sorrows. Your lives will be intertwined with your child, Galina, and it would be unrealistic to assume that you will always live in harmony. However, as you have already established a strong foundation for a family life, you will be able to meet future challenges with humor, understanding and compassion. May you, by example, help your children to grow into self-reliant adults, and in turn, may you learn from them, fully appreciating their youthfulness." 

The Celebrant paused, giving everyone a moment to absorb what he'd just said, then nodded. "Sara and Gil will be speaking their own vows from memory today," he announced to the audience, then smiled at the couple in front of him. "You can begin whenever you're ready."

Grissom began, enunciating his words slowly and gravely. "I, Gil, take you, Sara, to be none other than yourself. I promise that I will be at your side; I will encourage you and be open and honest with you; to laugh and cry with you, and always love and honor you. I will always be free, yet bound by our love, for as long as we live."

He paused, listening to the sound of sniffles and scattered "Aww" sounds coming from the people behind them. After a moment, he continued speaking, this time with a gentle smile and a lighter tone. "I promise that I will always be there to pull you away from work and force you to sleep when you need it. I will take care of our dog, even though she doesn't listen to me, and I will trust you with my tarantula. I will always love both you and our daughter, no matter what may happen in our lives."

Sara, who had just heard this second part of Grissom's vows for the first time, couldn't help but laugh. She wrapped her fingers more tightly around Grissom's and met his eyes, then began to speak her own vows.

"I, Sara, take you, Gil, to be none other than yourself. I promise that I will be at your side; I will encourage you and be open and honest with you; to laugh and cry with you, and always love and honor you. I will always be free, yet bound by our love, for as long as we live.

"I vow that I'll always be here for you, to force you to be social when you need to be. I'll take care of Fluffy as much as you might need, and she and I will have enlightening conversations about you. For you, I promise that I'll train the dog to behave herself better around you and to give you your couch back. There is nothing in the world that I would allow to separate me from you and Galina, and I promise that there never will be."

Light applause greeted the conclusion of the vows, accompanied by some well-mannered chuckles. The Celebrant smiled at his charges, glad that the pair had decided to make the small departure from the solemnity of the occasion. "You can now exchange your rings."

Michaela and Nick each stepped forward and handed their friend a wedding ring, then stepped back and smiled, waiting for the Celebrant to continue.

"The ring is a symbol of unity in which your lives are now joined in one unbroken circle. Your wedding rings declare that even in your uniqueness you have chosen to be together, to allow the presence of another human being to enhance who you are and who you will become. May those rings always remind each of you of the love you share and the promises you have made to each other." 

After allowing a few seconds for Grissom and Sara to make sure they had the correct rings, he added, "Please repeat this in unison after me: 'This ring is round and hath no end; so is my love unto my friend'."

They repeated the verse after him as they exchanged rings, both practically glowing from excitement and joy.

"Marriage is the joining of two people- the union of two hearts," the Celebrant intoned. "It lives on the love you give each other and never grows old, but thrives on the joy of each new day. May you always have in your hearts the memory of this special day. May you always be able to talk things over, to confide in each other, to laugh with each other, to enjoy life together, and to share moments of quiet and peace, when the day is done. May you enjoy a lifetime of happiness."

Turning his gaze to the audience, he continued, "Because Gil and Sara have agreed in their desire to go forward in life together, seeking an even richer, deepening relationship, and because they have pledged to meet sorrow and joy as one family, we rejoice to recognize them as husband and wife." He smiled at the couple. "You may now kiss."

The sniffles and exclamations grew louder as they drew closer to each other, eyes locked. Grissom set his hands on Sara's upper arms, holding her gently, and leaned toward her with his eyes still staring into hers. Just before their lips touched, he saw the corners of Sara's eyes crinkle as she fought the grin that was fighting to appear on her lips.

Their lips met in a gentle kiss, but Sara's smile continued to grow despite the contact, and it was contagious. After a few seconds, neither could hold it in anymore. The pull of their relief and satisfaction was too strong to be avoided.

Grissom and Sara both burst out laughing.

**_THE END_**__

**_Well…it's over. 134 chapters of fluff had to come to an end sometime, and I hope you guys enjoyed how I engineered the ending. Duckfeat, I tried really hard to incorporate that Barney record, but there was just nowhere to slip it in . . ._**


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